The Widows' Handbook: Poetic Reflections on Grief and Survival

As the Crow Flies

memories, ghosts, dreams 153 As the Crow Flies Regina Murray Brault If I don’t call you don’t lose faith when you break down my garret door expecting to find a skeleton still clutching her pen like the spoon that fed her soul. Look for me instead where the black crow circles casting shadows on thick moss and where summer webs like spun-lace doilies drape a granite stone to snare the bees. I’ll still be in a skin stretch-marked from weight of three moon-babies in my belly and wrinkles where some capricious crow did a buck-and-wing across my face. There will be faded stitches the shape of railroad tracks that lead to pillaged places— a writer’s bump a wedding band. I will be lying to his right like a missing rib separated by inches of cherry wood and ruffled satin. But if you climb this ancient path to find me 154 the widows’ handbook I’ll know you’re here. Like moss-protected soil that feels the shadow of the crow I always know when someone’s standing in my light. ...