Alabama Poets
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Sharp as a murder of dried-up crows
they caw the day’s hoarse choices: Yield to us or else we’ll say you yielded— All their dark angles ready to pierce the luminous fruit of her, tell me who wouldn’t want to mouth that ample breast or tongue the flushed aureole surrounding the one uncovered rose-colored nipple ungazed and perfect in the moment just before— not unlike the glass of wine set before me this Wednesday evening and me among the lookers. She—say we— are the ones who live to tell our other story: for years, I yes’d and no’d. Beautiful Susannah, tell me how you loved the stones, the mob, their terrible deaths. 
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