The Crow, by Georgia Kelly

Help

for I am lost,

fall to the ground,

you collect my skin

fresh gum collecting in teeth,
pull bits of my being
into somekind of reformation,
clumsy stuff: pieces and parts
like rolled-up socks and secrets
into the back of your drawer.

In the darkness
claws begin to unfurl;
Where feet once grew
feathers sprout sporadically
from craters, pits, holes;
the pores you made.
Unbeknown, I thrive on mites and lice,
wing, legs, shells, flesh
surrender to my hooked trap.

You

You with your futile limbs
and gawky oafish frame:
Forgetful of my caged presence
till the search for an item mislaid
cuts me from my oaken jail.
I am a deathly shadow
against the whitewash of yout walls.
In the keep of your chamber
I peck you dry.
As crimson swells and soaks,
seeping down halls
stairs onto the street,

Take your last breath as I fly away.