When I was twelve years old
I thought that I wanted a crow,
but crows were neither bought nor sold,
and so I searched the woods alone.
I had become a crone,
by the time my raven came to me,
and taught me what it means to be
captured by the fantasy.
In the beginning, it was love
He’d come down from the skies above
overtaken by the heat,
I wet his beak, he bit my feet.
In windows he would wait for me
upon the granite tower,
an outline of a mystery,
at four A.M. upon the hour
Before long he would circle me
when I would walk the path,
he'd perch, stalking me endlessly,
squawking with rancid wrath,
He was forever hungry,
Expecting me to feed and fill
His every call, and beckoning
of need of me always until,
he became a cruel king,
and I a slinking mess,
when I fell ill for just a day,
and could not leave my nest,
I found he was no pet at all,
and nor was I his mate,
for when I could not come to call,
he could not, would not wait.
His anger overspilled,
he flew up, flapping wings, irate,
against the windowsill,
then dropping down to wage his hate,
he stomped off madly down the hill,
pulling petals all around,
tearing my flowers all apart,
making the strangest sorts of sound.
I never had to cage him,
for he had captured me,
he’d been my master from the start
although I could not see,
For since I was a child,
I’d dreamt of what could be,
and I’d wanted a raven
and a raven came to me.
—J.Drew, 2024
