5

where crows die

it was a small patch, matted
stalks of wheat, like the Guinness
record for the smallest
crop circle
where you found them, the
hollowboned avian
carcasses set about like
an assemblage of old,
a cave painting redone
as performance art, some
stretched & held to their
wingspan
others tucked into the memory
of an egg without
root. There were too many
to take with you, too many
to empathize each to each, so
you chose him
in particular, the greybeaked
mischievous one (or thus
you imagined him in flight
& given breath in such
a demeanor) near the middle
of the bullseye slung about
with the blood of the others.
You cradled his weightless
habit & had him stuffed &
placed upon the television  as
a warning to those who would
look to use the remote.  & the
left foot you keep
on a string
hanging pendant
from your guitar like
a voodoo charm from
the Nebraskan hinterlands,  you hear it
scratching its talons
against the inside of the case
as you carry it around
town, from bar to bar &
back again.  There are  those who
believe
that they have seen it swaying
from the hollowed gallows
flexing its fist
to the music as you play
the punk rock blues as you
were given them.  They   believe
they have seen the talons
moving in rhythm, but you
know the truth of it: that
the tiny claw dances as it  must, that
diminutive
red demons are advancing
as the hours decline, that you
are the lighthouse keeper
of something at once
both
creator & destroyer,
that despite the shows &
accolades, the days
burning like first kisses,
it is only
the solemnity
that scars,
like
concentric circles
of crow
carcasses.

by Brian Townsley

Brian Townsley was born & raised in Los Angeles. He has degrees from UC Berkeley & USC, where he won the AWP Intro Award for poetry in 2001. He has published poems in numerous journals, including The Connecticut Review, Eclipse, Quarterly West, Diner, Southern California Anthology, and many others, and has published three books of poetry. He is a contributing writer to guerillalit and feels today a bit like Kafka caught inextricably in the machinery of things.