V. Penelope Pelizzon

On my birthday A crow guffaws, dirty man throwing the punch of his one joke. And now, nearer, a murder answers, chortling from the pale hill’s brow. From under my lashes’ wings they stretch clawed feet. There the unflappable years perch and stare. When I squint, when I grin, my new old face nearly hops off my old new face. Considering what’s flown, what might yet fly, I lean my chin on the palm where my half-cashed fortune lies.

Hunched in the bath, four ibuprofen gulped too late to dull the muscle cramping