Monday, March 1, 2010

Bedtime Stories.

There is blood on the moon.
My mother told me once
murder would reign 
on the same night
souls would be snatched
by a murder of crows
like ripe grain in the fields
plucked like heavy fruit 
on a mulberry bush
they would leave only a hollowed husk,
a rosy puddle
of the person who stood there.

My father used to swing me 
upside down to bed
It made his eyes crinkle
a paper bag, under foot.
He feels the warmth from the
people before him 
though they have been
cold and buried for years
He always looks concerned
even when he's laughing.

My grandmother is afraid of crows
She tells me they signify 
the sudden and
unexpected death 
of a close family member
should they roost
in the trees of your home.
She likes to wave her hands at them
from her balcony
and curses in another tongue.
She prays a lot.

I wonder
if it would be better
for a long and expected death
to take place instead of the one
the crows bring.
But I realise the long and 
expected death is life
Both will end the same.

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