I don’t know how these poets can
filet a dove and skin it; flip it
inside-out into
a metaphor for freedom or fortune or
the fleeting nature of grief;

I’d rather skewer a sparrow
and put it on a spit.

For years, I’ve watched the crows go
from lamppost to roof
from suburb to cemetery
from plot to plot;

Relegated to roadkill and the grubs in the lawn –

A poet could do something about these crows;
I’ll let them talk amongst themselves.

(C) Madison McSweeney

Originally published in Bywords, July 2018