Sometimes a crow whispers,
tempts me beyond possibility,
blackens my body, extends her wings.
We take flight.
Not in a fairy tale or a dream,
on an air current.
Our inky blue bodies circle the moon’s ring,
rest in tree tops.
Our beaks split bark.
We wonder about humanity.
Sometimes a leopard tears through tomorrows,
wakes me from lethargy,
channels my consciousness,
pounces on her quarry.
Blood dribbles down my chin
I renounce desecration.
Sometimes morning welcomes me,
spreads her offerings.
I feast on her banquet,
smile through the window,
hand on glass,
marvel at translucency,
sheltered from cold.
Sometimes I am lost,
no one guides me,
I step into other realities,
find I belong.
Susan Bloch-Welliver lives in the Pacific Northwest. She is a poet and glass artist. Her poetry is published in anthologies and journals. She received a Victor Jacoby grant/award to develop poetic sculpture from the Humboldt Area Foundation in 2019. In 2021 she received a grant to create and exhibit poetic sculpture at the Morris Graves Museum. She is the daughter of a poet and nurse, sister of a bookseller and wife to a kind-hearted builder.