Crow sits across from me in the courtroom
Black feathers litter the ground, float
Upon the mahogany boards.
Arraigned by the universe, he is bound
To try some of the old tricks – but Dove
His opposite and cancellation, now
Stands and with a sigh, coos and points
On the projector the dead body of a horse
Whose beautiful and terrible hooves
Are tied. “Did you create this nightmare?”
Crow’s mouth opens, and out pour stars
Books, portents. Series of things fleeing.
Crows feathers bunch up into fists
Little tight handfuls of blackness.
He parrots back “Nightmare, nightmare”
Dove sighs again, changes the slide.
A schedule for housework – “are these
Your claw marks but I see…
Crow your name does not appear.
Do you think a horse deserves
This kind of torture” Oh bright dove.
By this point all Crow’s feathers
Are out. He’s a plucked little terror.
Dove just looks sad. “Sweep that up please.”
They begin working. While Crow is croaking
“I’m god’s nightmare. god’s. I am violent…”
But it’s too late. I’m leaving,
Walking past the curled up
Wormlike bird on the stand, and out,
I drop my copy of the book in the dullness,
hold open the door and Dove walks with.
Her feathers’ pearlescence gallops across.
We talk about her day, and I make her tea.