funeral for crows
Cry, cry black feathers down your back, demolish
the moon and spit back a mouthful of blood and
entrails when they come asking for your sons. Cry
disaster, cry calamity, cry a mourning song in
octaves only the dogs can hear. Cry a long dead
river back into being, cry fire, cry panic, cry light
burning through coal-black-skin and demand the
dawn, demand the dawn with all its hope and none
of its rain. Cry, cry the molasses back into the body,
cry the stutter back into the heartbeat, cry, cry the
blackbirds back into flight, cry the blackbirds back
into the morning sky.
By N.L. Shompole
N.L. Shompole was born in Kenya. She is a multi-platform artist whose written and photographic works have been featured in various print and online publications including Two Cities Review, Words Dance Publication, Maps for Teeth, Invitation Annual, Kinfolks Quarterly and The Rising Phoenix Review. Lace Bone Beast, her most anticipated poetry collection was released in January 2017 and has received outstanding reviews.