Crow is perched on the end
of my bed, looking at me with black pricked eyes;
his pickled feathers are glossamer as pitch
but when he squawks
all I do is shrug
in blankety defense. I say, talk
English, you are in America now,
heathen tongues not allowed. Crow
stalks up the coverlet to the
pillow, hums his beak along my cheek:
a weighty, hammy bird, a bird for the ages,
strung and tethered
speaking the darling language of love.