American Crow

Temperatures have dropped.
The stink bugs taught the crows
to flatten and slide into window cracks;
squeeze through cracked putty, perch
in the shadowed ceiling corners.

I wake with one on my chest
talons pulsing at my sternum, beak open, 
the static of my sleep
drowning his caws. Are you hungry,
I ask, and offer crumbs from a midnight
snack, the loose hairs on my pillow, my
fingernails. He cries again.

Are you thirsty, I ask, and show him
the glass of water, the cold, bitter tea, 
the dew on the window. He won’t leave.
I toss my pillow out, afraid
he’s offended by the down stuffing. The sun
rises, and his black feathers glisten.
He flaps his wings but settles more firmly 
on my abdomen.

I stay in bed all day, window open, 
chilly air and leaves blowing in. Crow
picks and nips at my skin, shreds my
sheets, my pajamas. I am woven in.

ALLISON P. BROWN

Allison P. Brown, MFA, is a western New York–based poet and editor. She works with student publications and faculty authors across New York state. Her micro-chapbook Small Remedies was recently published by The Engine(Idling, and other work has appeared in the Indianapolis Review and Epistemic Literary Magazine, among other publications.