Acrylics on canvas.

I was born holding a bowl of rainbows, milky and effulgent. As I grew large and strong, the men I came to know dropped crows in the bowl. They curled on themselves, dissolving like ash on the tongue.

I filled my body with water, crystal clear. It was flying at warp speed with no momentum, moving in the stillness you feel just before you can think about what it meant. My lover became a crow and flew into my throat. The water turned to sand.

I folded my body into a crucifix, eyes blinking in the sunlight. He was sleek, intelligent, hilarious, and a harbinger of death. He notified me I was not welcome in my own backyard.

Also my children were not welcome. Also my dog.
Black eyes, black feet, black beak. Black shriek. Black.

He could read human faces and teach children to hold grudges against his enemies.

The universe presses against the ocean. This process is electrical and moves in waves. A crow can cut through the space between and not be harmed. 

The crow will eat anything. By the oceanside, he may steal and eat a seagull's eggs. He loves corpses and picking bones. His black feathers cover your face in humiliation, and his meat is not good.

He wants to make a clean breast of it, and flies off toward the mountains. Along with the usual sediment and rubbish, it's possible to live there. There are places where the air is so thin, the magma of the earth appears.

We don't turn around because we can't become salt. There's enough in front of us.


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