No one wants a crow between the quilts
its green-eyed milk,
sometimes smirked.
They say they want in, want a feather for an earring
but it’s diseased.
I walked the concrete,
no dirty paws,
the swamp lavender in marble contained,
my lashes so thin the iris ran
in the test of a dial,
the train sickness,
the life sickness,
lurched
from the bone.
moldy sorrow in bowls
stacked properly
bleached silent tar
I watched the crack in the arch bleed
two hundred dollars more
away from spinach, onions, green beans,
dog food,
away from reasons to live.
Barbed wire never rots—
it slits,
and the pack is fang.