The Murder in my Hearth


I was being a good girl when
a crow clambered down the chimney,
sat on my plump red chair,
dandelion tea in claw,
and we discussed all things shiny.

I mentioned your eyes and he writhed with delight until
You whipped him with a broom
– then he writhed for other reasons.

But before you, and your broom, and the crow who drank from ceramic,
my fireplace was perpetual.
and I revelled in the stench of ensnared flesh
spilling onto flower beds.
I ate bird and beak.

And I would paint you red.
A fireplace is meant to blaze,
I am meant to kill the birds you stuff down my throat

But you put a damper on my good time.
Claw torn skin,
each crow you use to declare war.
your broom is gathering dust.

But, unknown,
remnants of the last bird remain in this room.

feathers jammed in book pages.
a fireplace is meant to blaze.
I am hungry.

And feathers are flammable.

Image Credit: Neil Story Maskelyne via WikiMedia Commons

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