For the ones who smash their heads into cars
If you think the door is open
Look over your shoulder for the crow.
Don’t knock just to wake the baby.
Yellow feathers, I want to fluff pillows.
Who made you, or said God’s image
Wasn’t shoddy (a night after heavy drinking).
If you think the crow won’t ever forgive
Open the door and let it creak pain.
What do you think this metaphor leads to—
Miss—do you think your name is a mistake?
The door might as well be a window
But don’t bore me with poetics.
Bore me with what happened to the crow
After she tried to get out but didn’t
Get her whole body through the crease
Between the wall in the room and the wall
Of bright air just beyond the knob.
How she felt like a failure in those moments
Of freedom, which meant something
Even more now that it’s missing.