From the winter’s blue dark, the crows

floated in through the open window

where my mother and I slept in our shared bed.

They came and burrowed under the quilts,

one on my chest, embracing my heart.
My mother laid motionless. She did not cry

and in the blackness I strained to speak

but my breath froze in the glacial air.

I tried slipping out from beneath the cobalt weight,

as if this burden were a baby

nursing until desiccation.
Corvus lay atop me. Iridescent claws

clasped my sternum, tightened their hold.
Her shadowy feathers only ruffled in reposition

like a mother nesting on top of her clutch,

assiduous and de nite,

until something fragile finally cracks.