By James Valvis
This is not one of Poe’s ravens.
This crow standing by my door
has been here all December long,
demanding I toss her my heart.
If I throw it out for her, more crows
will come, and then more, and then
this place will be positively hitchcockian.
If I don’t throw something, it’ll be worse.
I open my window a little and chance
a peek down the Plutonian road,
see an ex-girlfriend or ex-husband crow
on every stone lawn, hiding in trees,
on shed roofs, inside mailboxes.
One stands on a napping scarecrow
that a neighbor planted in her dawn.
I chuck a hunk of heart, my last,
and quickly slam shut the door.
But later, as I lay on my dreary bed,
weak and weary, pondering all the gore,
I see a round black eye staring at me
through the window, beak tap, tapping,
against the pane, as if to assure,
that upon the poor bust of Valvis
she’ll perch now forevermore.
James Valvis has placed poems or stories in Arts & Letters, Barrow Street, Off the Coast, Ploughshares, River Styx, Southern Indiana Review, The Sun, and many others. His poetry was featured in Verse Daily. His fiction was chosen for Sundress Best of the Net. A former US Army soldier, he lives near Seattle. Visit his website.