Crow Analog

[pongolyn]

Crow wakes up one day and says
“It is time to trim the fat.”
Crow cuts a pound of flesh
from his own body
and sculpts it down with a sharp, sharp knife.
The dross of his carving flies everywhere
as the golden form takes shape.
What will it be?
something useful
or beautiful
or both.
It doesn’t matter.

Carve, carve, carve.
Caw, caw, caw.
Carve, corvid.
Cry.

With bloody, bladelike beak
shedding all dross
Crow loses all.

For three days
wanders bodiless
in the belly of the beast
for three days.

Sees the shards of his old life
lying around in a heap.
He mourns them forever.

Meticulously as a scavenger
begins to organize.
Form to function
Message becomes medium.

One pile is to be given
back to the earth
to nurture future generations.
One pile
(and this is much smaller)
all that he has missed
during his sojourn.
Truly missed.
He sculpts it
gives it form
swallows it.