Rituals
Since crows
are smarter than
they need to be,
she calls them
from the sky
to inspect her work.
They say, “Hood the eyes.”
She lays me on my back
where the skin is thinner,
takes my feet
to place on the fire,
and covers my eyes
with a cloth
the color of a raven’s wings.
We’re the last.
We’ve survived on
possibility and swiped grain.
We will die soon.
They gather now in the well.
She lays next to me
and we disrobe.
She tells me:
“The ravens bring rain
and grasshopper eggs
to a fevered mouth.
The dove only circles and returns.”
We rise together, humming
to the well.
We hear them
swooping and calling,
the swift patter of black wings.
–Tara Mae Mulroy
***
Tara Mae Mulroy’s first chapbook is Philomela (dancing girl press, 2014). She’s received a scholarship from the Sewanee Writers’ Conference and an Academy of American Poets prize. Her poems, stories, and essays are published or forthcoming in Third Coast, CutBank, The Journal, and others. She currently teaches Latin.
