The Trouble with Ravens

I’ve had all kinds of stuff going on this weekend and cranking out an entire post seems like a bridge too far, so today you shall be “treated” to another old poem of mine. I will return to my regularly scheduled posts next week, as I do have a lot to talk about. (We got a microscope! I learned Hip Thrusts!) For now, I hope you enjoy this poem about the wily raven. A proper post is to come next week.

 

 

The Trouble with Ravens

 

is who they were born from.
The first one ever
was wicked beyond imagining.
Who else could steal the sun,
regurgitate stars, drag
Night into the world
with such a frail and lazy mouth? This
is their cunning legacy,
wrapped in their DNA like a long
stray hair.
Because of this,
they have no shame.

So be careful when Raven
beguiles you from telephone wires
or worse yet, those
misty reeds; when he twists
his head and peers at you,  quick-faced,
grease-eyed. He wants
your bread, your bullets,
your riddles, the last
dreamy petal
fallen to the night table.

He wants to brag
of how he is so beloved
that the brightest, most breakable girls
name themselves “Raven”; shape
their eyes like his with kohl,
and wander
in mourning through the world
with their glossy hearts and feathered lips.

He will tell you all this.
He will sing you songs
you are most unprepared to hear.
He will flutter before you, holding
a volatile orb in his beak.

He will offer it, offer it.

--Kristen McHenry