Crow’s Lament

Crow’s Lament

I’m good at knots.
I like green pepper
and Kentucky fried bones
and bingo.

The risk
of numbers.
Daubing
coloured felts on newsprint.
The sound. Smoky excitement.

I like glittery things.
I like glittery things
in gravel.
I like dead things
in gravel at the side of the highway.
Hubcaps with insects glued on.

Muffin cups.
I love blueberry muffin cups.

Cigarette butts.
I like the mix of jewels and bugs.

I like things the way they are.
Bitter.
Lemon rind,
fishbone a week old.

People revile me.
They say I’m no lady.
No manners.
Say I kill baby birds.
Scavenge.

Hey, a gal does some good,
cleans up the environment,
recycles ­–
and they’re ready
to stone you.

I like who I am.
I wasn’t born to porcelain.
I rattle a few teacups, make noise.
Good for a woman to make some noise.

My one regret
is not making it into myth.

Almost but no cigar.

That raven flapping around,
making BIG noise,
butting into line ­–
she scored all the tricks,
the interesting vocalizations,
the throat singing.

Where in the world
did Raven learn throat singing?

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