GANG OF CROWS by Alison Zheng
dad promised mom
they’d age
as trees
a linden and an oak
surrounded by hybrid
tea roses
/
once again, I am empty-
ing the vacuum of
clumps of dust
and my old hair
the timer on my phone
says our two baked potatoes—
free in a box
from the food bank—
will be done in thirty-six minutes
/
I can’t stop talking about death
even though I sit in an open office
and winter’s atmospheric river
has already come and gone
and the engineers are trying to code
/
death looms
in the darned holes of
every sweater I own
/
near the baseball field,
a gang of crows
peck their way
through garbage cans
plumage
shiny black
like dad’s hair
