The raven
descended
last night.

Flapping black wings
opened up a hole in my ceiling.

Spackle rained
in drips
of sweat.

The raven opened its beak,
laid down
and spread its wings on my chest.

A black man
was shot to death
on a clear day.

With his hands up
and nothing in his  
spread fists
they still shot him.

The raven came to comfort me in the loudness
of a coughing,
suppressed cry.