i will be the
man with the head of a crow

i will sing the last song your lover
ever hears before his car hits the ice

will be next to you in bed in the
morning, will tell you that
it's not enough to dream of comfort

it's not enough to pray to the
ghosts of drunken saints

i learned this from my father,
and then the machines were turned off

the hallways were dark at three in
the morning, the nurses all
stoned in the parking lot, and there
was a woman there, younger than me,
who said she couldn't find
her hands

there was the sensation of my
teeth dissolving away into nothing

tiny feathers sprouting from my face

my hands on your breasts as you
cried out someone else's name