My Own Raven 
First published in Picaroon Poetry, issue 14

This black-feathered fucker
perched on my shoulder
whispers to me,

remember, somewhere
lies a patch of land waiting
for your carcass.

If you’re lucky
people will weep for you,
if you’re lucky.

And those people
will meet the same fate.

And your gravestone
will decay.

And your bones
will decay.

And the remaining memories of you
will decay.

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