Crow, why did you have to strut across the road, swaggering your tail feathers at me, one beady eye twitching?
I only meant to ruffle your skirts, take some of the smug off your bold face—call your bluff
but I was impatient, eager to get home, and didn’t see the scree of gravel on the road
for a blustering fellow, you made such a small thump and crunch under the wheels of the car
I winced, smiled reassuringly at the child in the rear view mirror, his face turned out the window looking for damage
inside, the sinking feeling, the consequence of misplaced emotions embedding in my gut
ever since that moment the bone china jumps out of my hands, slippery as wet soap, and spangles the kitchen floor with a cymbal of sound
milkjugs of seafoam green and eggcups by the dozen—tiny smithereens the lot of them
I want to blame you crow for putting the evil eye on me, make you carry the burden of my guilt
but how ridiculous is that. This morning it was the teapot—my grandmother’s—and I vowed it was the last shard
to unwind a spell you must pick at the knots, teasing with your fingers, like unraveling an old sweater
each knot an undoing, paying back the threads, unlearning you crow and asking forgiveness.