Page 132 - Dark Matter Women Witnessing

Grace Grafton

Crow Mother, Her Eggs, Her Eyes

A crow picks her swaying way across fields

searching for food. Three-pronged skinny feet

splay, gripping slope. It would be better if this field

hadn’t been plowed after harvest. Easier if the

spray hadn’t killed what she eats.

****

Crow Mother has no face, expects nothing.

All wings and eggs, flying and holding on,

she sees but does not know.

How does she breathe?

Through the beat of her wings.

How does she think?

There is no confusion in her.

****

Without sun’s reflection to glint off feathers’ perfect curve, a crow would be a chunk

carved from the night forest. But a crow is not the bird of night, at least not the night sky

with its starry crazyquilt or summer’s warm moon-work. The crow’s black is dense,

storm or giant trees’ blotting of the dome.

****

See with Crow Mother’s sightful wings,

what do you look for?

Seeds, rain, heat.

Someplace safe enough for eggs,

where you incubate,

dark, unknown.

Where all your selves

can be born.