A Murder of Crows

A murder of crows
is just a bunch of birds.

A crowded city,
a bunch of humans.

Jesus Christ
was just a man—
vulnerable flesh,
spillable blood.

So was Gandhi.

So is Bill Gates.

Windows
is a bunch of code
or glass panes
in a wooden frame.
And the tree it came from,
a family of atoms—
circles and letters
in a dusty textbook.
Just as Harry Potter
is a bunch of text,
and Hogwarts’s soaring spires,
an idea.

And she was just a woman.

Two X chromosomes
in a smooth package
of skin and bone.

And the love was only
a fleeting warmth,
dancing above my fingertips.

The sadness,
a lingering cold—
claws latched around my throat.

Yesterday
was a bunch of hours.
Today,
a few more.
But those hours,
a chance—
a chance to find
two more X chromosomes
to share just another
fleeting warmth
to fend off that
suffocating cold.

A chance I’ll take.

Even though I know now
that a murder of crows
is still just a bunch of birds.

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3 thoughts on “A Murder of Crows

  1. Great poem. Yes, what indeed are we? A bunch of tangled nerves sandwiched in skin and bone. I’m looking for my next XY – but he’ll need to be so much more than that!

    Love your poem.

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