A.j. Binash

Rookie - 44 Points (04-20-1988 / Dodgeville WI)

To My Friend-The Crow


The sky breaks apart into pieces.
In-between the cracks of shadow,
A blood-moon wilts like small talk.

Where shadow trembles,
A dead opossum’s neck twitches.
While a murder of crows
Tugs at its intestines.
Wrapping pink organs around their beaks.
Warm as a sunset.

They don’t desire
Bread crumbs from elderly fingers.

It’s the dead
Not the dying
They crave.

Yet,
Father Thomas attempts.
Throwing day old handfuls
Of the Body of Christ.

To a Crow,
It’s the dead
Not the dying they crave.

The Body of Christ
Tastes like salt.
And all the water fountains
Are closed for the winter.

Submitted: Wednesday, November 27, 2013

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