Weather(ed) Patterns

by Brittany Smart 

I am an anonymous crow

Crinkles at eye ends

My grandma, before her lungs

wilted. Sometimes,

I’m still. At home, I hear

raindrops, bulleting

the bay windows,

Thunder trembling, calling—

Flash me.

Flash by.

A tongue lashing

It’s Thursday, and I’m ten-years-old

barricading myself in the basement

with my bowl of milk, unearthing

rot—claiming spoil, soiled

When you’re young, you can’t tell

cheeky kisses from sharp swats

both are hot contact

So, I became an anonymous crow

in fall, in a field, stretching over

clotted clay; or shoddy quiltwork

caught under a train, the bluegrass

heaving against black metal

Brittany Smart is a graduate teaching assistant at the University of Louisville where she is pursuing a Ph.D. in Rhetoric and Composition. Her poetry has appeared in magazines such as Pennsylvania English, Kansas City Voices, and Gravitas. Some of her favorite poets include Harryette Mullen, Joy Harjo, and H.D. In her free time, she enjoys snuggling with her chihuahua, Cosmo.