1.  

Dusk splits the evening into a dozen ravens.
        Does as darkness does, clocks ticking backwards

as you swallow silk scarves and pearl earrings,
        seize in the stairwell that spirals into shadows.

It was a molting of sorts, a giving over, 
        Hollowed out bones and the way you could feel

the wind move through you. Admittedly,
        you were captivated by the brass buttons on his coat

glinting in moonlight. The quail hunter with his hands
        full of blood. What he sang to you sharp and high

like a blade through the neck. The bouquet of bones
        he lay before you. His coat of rain, his breadcrumbs

dropped along the path. Your claws were
        still small and sharp. Open ribcage and messy heart.

Dangerous, feathered. A wilderness tucked
        in a blinking black eye, A psalm. A song.

2.

Mornings were quiet, but the clicking in your grandmother’s throat
        would start at noon.  She’d begin licking the downy feathers

along her arms that became wings that became weather
        sweeping in from the west. Would do her best to keep silent

in the vestibule as the old woman’s bones cracked and sighed,
        pried at the tin of biscuits with hooked claws and crooked

gait. The human body not meant for this kind of magic.
        Lifting off the floor of the parlor and rustling

the chandelier.  She’d go so high the children would cry out,
        entice her with silver objects—spoon, wristwatch, bottle tops.

But nothing could stop her. She’d roost in the willow tree
        that wept in the yard. Spit up beetles and tiny worms onto

the crowd gathered below. But she could sing
        the most beautiful song. Could strum the vocal cords

with a sharp claw, and make noise that sounded like dying.

A writer and book artist, Kristy Bowen is the author of several books, chapbooks, zines, and artist books. Her work has appeared recently in Marrow, Grimoire, and Dark Winter. She lives in Chicago.