Crow

for KN

The sun was a burned Eggo when we
found ourselves standing before the
lighthouse, a country crossed and
muffled to a murmur we would
sometimes hear in dreams. We ate
handfuls of black currants and
brushed our hair. Thistles wilted all
around. After many days and weeks of
admiring the stark shape of the jutting
tower, of touching our hands to its
stone, of rubbing its birth-soil
fragrant oils, we opened the door and
found ourselves locked inside despite
never having entered.

Salt filled our lungs and we were
drowning.

I sank to the bottom and made a nest
of what was given: a rusty screw, a
twice-baked heart. It was cold as a
carcass and when you touched it you
turned into a crow.