A crow was talking back to me
In the trap-house recording studio
Every time I tried to say Wordsworth.
I knew why. In eighth-grade English
I told the teacher that “Daffodils”
Was bad. It’s just so bad! I said.
And set on myself
The Mark of the Crow.
Every time I opened my mouth:
Caw.
Can you throw some raw meat for it?
Chloe asked.
Her next idea was a gun.
The crow spoke when I opened
My mouth, we were one.
Half of a Terrance Hayes poem
And Roz Chast, you were there.
Please come scare the crow,
I texted Jason, but he was dealing
With the wheat streak mosaic.
I stared in panic at the paneled wall.
It was like the basement where
Amy Dixon pooped in the trash can
While Dad counseled the crying woman
Who had married two gay brothers.
Now THAT would be a good New Yorker
Story. You know, they’re kind of boring.
Mine was. William climbed a cliff
After raven’s eggs, when he was a boy,
And saw the earth around him,
Total, and just hung there halfway up.
What do you think he might be feeling?
The teacher’s handout asks.
What would happen if he slipped?
“With what strange utterance did the loud
Dry wind blow through my ears!
The sky seemed not a sky of earth,
And with what motion moved the clouds!”
Caw! The wind blew through me.
We hung suspended and we
Ended: Everyone must pay.
Go through and discuss the words
And phrases on the cliff around the boy.
—Patricia Lockwood
Patricia Lockwood is the author of six books, including the poetry collection Agate Head / Stone Soup.