Eating Crow

by Gloria Peters

You came to me last night.  You were a big black crow perched on a branch in the cherry tree in my backyard.   I could feel it was you as you gazed at me with your eyes of cool blue ice.   Your feathers  shimmered as the light changed.   Your stare pierced me through the sliding door glass.   Your presence made me unsettled and anxious.

I waited for you to leave.  You didn’t.  Then I stood in the doorway and threw breadcrumbs toward the tree.  You swooped down and gobbled them up.  Then I threw grapes.  You ate those also, grabbing them in your beak, sending them down your gullet.

By then you were at my doorstep.  I looked you in the eye and asked what you wanted.  You didn’t answer, but flew in over my head and landed on the chair that now branched like a tree.  My carpet turned to grass and I couldn’t tell the difference between inside and out.

I had an apple in my hand.  I brought it to you and you poked it with your beak and nibbled.  I asked you again what you wanted.  You stared at me hard.  Then I opened my mouth and you stuck your beak down my throat and pulled out something squishy and red.  When I knew it was my heart, I screamed for you to give it back.  You gulped it down, then flew off into the dazzling blue sky, black wings flapping hard and swirling like ink into the distance.


Gloria Peters was so worried about becoming her mother that she became her father.  A therapist once wrote in her file that she laughed inappropriately, and she continues to do so.
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