Fly, old crow, over the bayou’s risen waters,
South of palms read backwards, on streets
Basking in lovers whose chests crack with each breath
To reveal jasmine blooms in bones.
Fly, old crow, where memory hangs as Spanish moss on crippled oaks,
Stretching out of stones,
Wrapped around homes, and
Hollow limbs that chime
Fortune told in wind.
Fly, old crow, passed cobbled, crowded streets of wonder,
Connection and plunder,
Where stone scars and serpents’ eggs are legacies of spells
Cast by forgotten queens who beckon souls
From death with brass harmony,
Cypress trees,
Muddy weaves,
Sweet teas.
Fly, old crow, soft lips lure,
Eager to taste kind words and synchronous heartbeats
With a kiss that decides who stands or crumbles
Between hands tender and able,
Fond of hidden tendency,
Flush with possible realities,
Equating relative distance between
Self and all.
Fly, old crow, untouched, as blood runs and succumbs to sweeping fires,
Endless joy,
Devilish desire to offer upon alters
Hearts in heat,
Restless to be free,
Fly, old crow, in the eye of a storm
Into root, legend, and muddled tea leaves.