Crow
In this poem from Asheville, North Carolina, a chain of images reveals how our minds sometimes play tricks on us—and, at other times, show us exactly what we need to see.
With the eye’s slight of hand
Wia white cross morphs into
Withan egret with open wings,
My aan angel come to intervene.
My adolescent brain fooled me into believing
my first boy-crush was my forever love.
I don’t remember his name.
And I won’t lie to you, I once
mistook an oil can for a crow
on the side of the Bayou.
We think we see—
Smoke from a barbeque or
Smoka cross burning
Smokacross the way?SmoA call
to arms for some, a bonfire of hope
to arms for others.
And what looks like a flock of
geese flying lowockturns out to be
flyers on the ground.
We think we see or hear, don’t we—
what makes us a target—
what mwhat causes Daddy to let out a scream
what mlike the screech of a cat in heat when
a white-sheeted klansman outside
my bedroom window really is
a white-sheeted klansman
outside my bedroom window.
About the author
Joyce Thornburg is a poet and visual artist from Asheville, North Carolina, where she has a working studio and gallery. She embarked on a nomadic lifestyle a year ago, spending time in Mexico, Portugal, and, most recently, New Orleans. Her poetry has appeared in The Great Smokies Review, NC Bards Poetry Anthology, and Bards Against Hunger.
- Joyce Thornburghttps://www.salvationsouth.com/author/joyce-thornburg/
