I passed the salt to the raven
her eyes blinked in sequence: one, two, three
was this counting or conversation? I am still
learning her language, after all
that has happened
or not happened since I arrived here
shiny gifts rebuked and love abandoned
like empties set beside an overflowing dumpster
no room here for that—we’re already full
on move-in day a tiny sparrow fluttered in our trusses
and shat panicked in her beautiful cage, but it wasn’t
til the heron perched sentinel in the backyard
tree that I began to
take it personally
that the crows here won’t look me in the eye
but hide in their own trees laughing at a joke
I can’t hear; not invited in despite a lifelong
record of abundance flowing their way, but
when I saw the neighbour coming up the front steps
I pushed the raven out the kitchen window—knowing
that no one should see my blackbirds
until they are safely baked in a pie
…
This poem was published in the Fall 2025 issue of Sea & Cedar magazine. You can read the digital edition of the magazine here.
