Black Crow Caws

by Janine Phillips

I search in the shadows
of the early morn,
in the evening sky,
and the breaking dawn.
I look within
and look without,
seeking solace
from this gnawing doubt.
There’s no relief for
this pain so raw,
not even in my black crow’s caw.
I close my eyes and wait to see.
but nothing comes
and nothing leaves.
Only emptinests
of solitude.
No raptitude.
No gratitude.
Just attitude.
It’s over now and in the past.
But I remember the past and how it lasts.
Fading, then returning fast.
Headlines, outcries,
a couple millennia of lies,
and dogma-dodging alibis.
Reconciliation.
First Holy Communion.
My dress and veil
so piously white.
A secret so sacred.
A chosen child.
Remember that your Jesus’ bride.
Blessed. What a mess
with my soiled veil and dress.
Shoulda worn my cape-black as night-
back then, I guess.
So here I am
flying on my broom
beneath a black as a cat dark moon
just before that sliver of light
cuts the night sky.
Beyond the horizon I soar—
out of sight out of mind.
I’m going, going . . . out of my mind.
Searching ‘til the end of time,
calling the quarters
in rhythm and rhyme.
I face the east
and feel the air
and know my healing is out there.
Somewhere
in the  breaking dawn,
in the evening sky,
in the early morning
lavender sun rise.
I face my fears as the shadows fade,
and will this gnawing doubt away.
I search in the shadows
of the early morn,
in the evening sky,
and the breaking dawn.
I look within
and look without,
seeking solace
from that gnawing doubt.
I find relief from
this pain so raw,
wrapped in my cloak
as the black crow caws.