Crow

Your husband has sustained a four-part proximal humerus fracture with greater tuberosity.

When the fall damaged you,
you came to me, humbled,
needy and bewildered,
responding to my tentative hand.
Days passed. You bowed your head
while I cleansed you.
I kept the room dim for you.
Brought grubs and water. Fed my eyes on you.
I liked that I’d tamed you.

One day, your beak nudged the curtain.
As I entered the room, your black gloss feathers
gleamed in a panel of daylight, and I sensed
your feral heart hammering.
This time, when I reached my hand
your harsh beak hacked it. Just once.
And I knew I had to unshackle you,
unclasp the ring and chain fastened at your ankle.
Crows are not made to be captive.

I dragged the curtain aside; forced up the window. You
see-sawed low, voice raucous,
eyes black beads glistening with wisdom.
I clamped my hands behind me
as you reared your wings out, practising.
But what about me? I cried. Your claws
clacked on the countertop. Your eyes
fixed me – before you leapt for the trees;
leapt into the waiting space.