Erika Luckert
A masked woman holds the body of a dead crow
like an hors d’oeuvre on the platter of her upturned hands.
The hands are not a platter, they are asking a question.
The question lasts an hour and is repeated every day
until the other crows gather and circle
and dive, mob and retreat and peck at the woman
her shoulders, her arms. Her mask grows brittle
pockmarked by their beaks, its clay begins
to deteriorate and drop to the ground in clumps.
The sockets of the eyes grow wide.
The woman leaves. But the body of the dead
crow and her question hands remain, outstretched
and asking every day, do you remember me?