Libby Bernardin

Crows clustered in the bruised light of dream
by Libby Bernardin

Here’s the way it was:

a house in a city near the ocean

monstrous rocks jutting out of waves

splashing on what little shore there is.

You would think how lovely

except for the crows,

why not chatter of seagulls,

the black-tipped wings of white pelicans.

But crows? These jutting rocks?

You might think those crows, those rocks—

solid matter, grounding,

but you, behind a veil of water,

tremble violin notes

swelter in the muggy air.

You pack your suitcase to catch the train

only to find you’ve left your book,

the one you’ve written.

And there in the sky, the crows have it,

pick at each other

tear at the pages.

Those crows in the bruised light, that train leaving.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 2.

Libby Bernardin

Libby Bernardin is a South Carolina poet and teacher of fiction, poetry, and journalism.

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