Nailing Wings to the Dead

Since we nail wings to the dead, she calls ravens from the sky to inspect our work. “For flight,” they say, “first remove their boots.” She leans in, inspects a fresh hex behind my eyes, takes my feet and lays them on the fire, to burn it out, roots first. We’re the last, babička and me. We’ve survived on chance and bread baked from the last store of grain. And as we’re out of both, we will die soon. They are gathering in the well. We disrobe. She hums whilst I nail her wings, she tells me a tale, her last gift — “This dark stain, passed kiss to kiss-stained fevered mouth, blights love, is pulsed by death-watch beetle’s tick, timing our decay. They know this. They wait by water, gulping despair. The ravens keep watch, they say the contagion’s here, they promise to take us first.” Her tale done, we go winged and naked to the well. We hear them climbing the walls, caterwauling, but ravens are swift, and swoop.