Crow man, fearless leader of that bipolar clan,
comes to me nights when my insomnia is worse,
wings spread like a crossbow from his feathered body.
He tells stories about whales that swam once
in the great Wadi Hitan, killer toads, big as cantaloupes,
three-foot-tall men living among the Cro Magnon.
He speaks of Black Eve, black as his renegade friends,
rising from the birthing pool to lend us her genes.
He says mystics, not paleontologists
will write the true story of Evolution.
When I finally half doze, he lifts me,
tenderly as a lover might, wakes me at the Akashic Records.
He points to my illness as a dot, a comma
in my ongoing book of life.
If I can erase the comma I’ll be healed, I reason.
We leave before my eraser can reach.
I try to seduce him, convince him by my sex
to give me THIS DAY my daily bread.
He won’t be fooled.
Your bread feeds the multitudes, he whispers,
rises silently into the crow-filled night.
-also appeared in the print journal Chiron Review
-refers from the word bread in Carolee Sherwood’s poem After we kissed for the first time