Ryan M. Valentine

The Twa Corbies

Comics

Vigilante Murder​

 

In my mother’s garden, there are finally crows.

We hold our breath,

stand on the porch,

and watch. 

 

The murder bleeds  

through our lawn,

onyx bodies blotting out green.

Nasal voices chatter,

cacophonous. 

And something heavy hangs in the air. 

 

In talons and beaks,

they carry their kill.

 

A stoat.

A squirrel.

A viper.

A fox.

 

A feast. 

 

The famished take their seats 

in the Great Hall — our backyard.

A hall, once glorious, long exhausted. 

Eaten away by the fattened fools

that now lie

on corvid plates. 

 

How silly, 

to take more than your share,

and not expect to end up

on the menu. 

 

Cicadas’ drone floats high 

over the rustling of feathers 

and ripping of flesh.

Inky heads bob in clusters,

necks bent towards satiety.

 

Tear away a morsel.

Throw your head back.

Laugh wildly.

Let the piece gleam 

crimson in the morning sun

before it slides easily 

down your throat.

 

Over and over,

the dance of dissect and devour

rattles through the crowd. 

 

We shift our weight away,

unconsciously aware that 

we are intruding on a family’s meal.

Uninvited and empty-handed.

 

The drone begins to die,

and, body by body,

green grass appears again.

Vibrant against the dark, luscious earth.

Redder for the blood that slowly sinks into it.

 

My mother descends into her garden,

picking her way across their dinner table.

Examining what they left behind.

 

A fang.

A necktie.

A liver.

A yacht.

 

I prod a skull with my toe.

As it rolls away,

it leaves a spine

and investment property 

behind.

 

A flash of black

skims through my periphery.

Though we whip our heads around,

we miss it.

Finding only air no longer heavy

and chortling laughter riding the wind. 

 

My mother tucks a single, ebony feather

behind my ear.

 

Heat pools in the tips of my fingers

and rakes itself across my back.

What is this strange feeling?

It’s like my blood is flowing again.

 

For the first time in months, 

I don’t fear the sun.

 

Is this hope?