November Crows

By Iyanna Armwood

cw: body horror


November is the month crows perch on my ribs and pick at my heart. 

The garden I grew in the cage withered away months ago. 

I miss the sunflowers I tended and cared for in April. 

I would peel back the layers of skin and muscle to give them sunlight.

Sometimes I hung a feeder on my clavicle for the migrating birds. 

The snapdragons I’m trying to grow are bullied by the crows. 

They don’t have enough pushback against the violent pecks. 

The blackbird won’t leave, and won’t stop their constant squawking. 

I mourn for the gentle breeze of June. I didn’t need to conceal my bones, for

the sun shower used to patter gently on my scapula and down the sternum.


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