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
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.
A.j. Binash's Other Poems
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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