My Raven 
First published in Picaroon Poetry, issue 14

Resting at my window
in the cold flush of the dusk
is a bird of black feathers.

She calls to me,

Remember that somewhere
on this earth lies a patch of land
waiting to devour your carcass.

If you’re lucky,
people at your retirement will weep
as they watch you sail off into the soil,
if you’re lucky.

And those mourning will, in time,
be presented with the same fate.

And your humbled bones will decay
with the lingering memories of you.

And there’ll be no more opportunities
to face up to the things you’re afraid of.

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