AS THE CROW FLIES

by Sarah Marshall

 

 

From a crow’s eye,
as the crow flies,
something like gold.

From the height of a child—
or a girl-sized child—
or a child-sized girl (for who are you to say?
You have not met her until this moment, have not
seen her bare, white feet as she picks along the railroad tracks
down by the river
singing
down by the river,
I shot my baby

her arms bare and bluing and white
eyes blue and whitening at times
as she turns them to the sky
draining them of color, so she can see more)—

This is not gold.
This is not silver.
These are not diamonds strewn by careless birds
by crows with an eye for something rich
and shining harder and more hardly
than all the waters of this place.

This is the garbage, the tinfoil
gum wrappers
wire glinting sharply in
the mulch, the muck
the garbage that feeds this blackened soil
that cuts white feet,
white hands.

But this girl is lucky.
Looking out for rain, for certain clouds
for gatherings of flies,
she has no eyes for gold.
They have been drained both of color
and of avarice.

She walks
gently
on this black earth
looking for the shine of water
looking for

blackberries
the darkest jewels

hidden where
the black earth
brings forth

green

 

 

Return to table of contents.