What Miss Plath Doesn't Tell the Doctor

My wounds are turning
into crows: raw black

whoop. And I love them,
my glossies. They peck

my resolve, sipping
puddles of dark milk.

They watch the nurses
walk in plump, creamy

stockings and hear that
clock concuss. They have

no captain, no warm
rum. They fly to my

branchless mind: lithe harm,
such expansive wings.

Copyright © 2008 C. E. Perry All rights reserved
from Dogwood
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission