the black bird that lives in your kitchen

I just remembered
that yesterday
I’ve heard the crow
he came uninvited
his beak dripping magenta clouds
on your wooden floor
in the kitchen
staining your sense of purity
with his arrogant magic

I just remembered
that yesterday
I’ve heard the crow
he came uninvited
and landed next to my exhausted feet
knocking on my toenails
click
clack
just like my heels
were clicking
towards the hidden cupboards
of your mind

I just remembered
that yesterday
I’ve heard the crow
he came uninvited
when I was gathering all the bears
and wolves
of the forest
to enter your kitchen
and make you your last meal
in the shade of a pale afternoon lamp
shining onto the knives and forks
that you’d use
to cut the grass from my secret garden

I just remembered
that yesterday
I’ve heard the crow
he came uninvited
when I was trying to saw together the pieces of
fresh and earthly potatoes
and seduce you with heaps of tomato juice
dripping from my small chin
that you would twist and turn
like a lifeless limb

I just remembered
that yesterday
I’ve heard the crow
he came uninvited
at 3:45
in the afternoon
and bit me in my left lung
taking out
all the air
that was meant
to keep my body off the grounds
guarded
by your wild hounds
ashamed of their disheveled fur
and yellow teeth
that would feast on the fresh flesh of the delicate geese
locked
on the second floor of your tower

at 3:49
I was looking around your kitchen
breathless
and numb
there were black birds
everywhere
crawling out of your rusty sink
and
nesting in the crevices of the floor
sticking out their feathers
like broken masts
their damaged wings couldn’t fly them out
of that kitchen
not for the love of the gods
because even the gods
turned their faces away
from
the disaster that you have farmed
so carefully
beyond the wild forests
and lost valleys
of the people
who we used to be