Three black crows hop
in the deep snowy field
behind the library
The snow
glows orange
You sit in your car
engine killed
waiting for something
Nothing falls
from the cloudless night
*
There’s a point where you come to realize that this is exactly what you wanted to
happen
Why you start hiding things under your bed
neatly in bags
labeled and dated
Snipping out pictures of faces from magazines
for the simple way they feel between your fingers
how in dropping them
they resemble falling leaves
*
Your father sleeping upright on the couch
Your father screaming at you for not taking the dog out
Your father keeping the dog’s leash in his car for years after her death
Your father dying
*
The items pile up
all humming beneath you
shaking the mattress
asking you to listen
*
He isn’t dead
He’s just stopped
speaking to you
*
Someone taps on the car window
a school friend
asking for a ride
Asking too many questions
thinking you know
about something
how things end or are supposed to—
You’re not breathing but you should
You’re not listening because your ears
are packed with snow
*
Your collection
requires more stringent organization
so you begin sorting according to taste
tonguing each face
and placing them in tupperware
to keep out air
*
The white noise of winter
your friend in the passenger seat
fogging up the windows
with her living body
her kinetic body full of blood
A crow lands amongst the others
something in his beak
They fight for it
Splash of red
against the snow
Zoe Etkin is an MFA student at CalArts. She identifies as a poet but is also interested in hybrid forms. Etkin is a recent recipient of the Beutner Award for Excellence in the Arts. Hailing from Memphis, Etkin is interested in the South, but having lived in New Mexico and California, she infuses the West into her aesthetic.
