On your head,
the first of the blackbirds sits.
Another alights
on my shoulder.
Another on your shoulder.
My head. Your lap. My lap.
My other shoulder. It is
a dark, uncomfortable weight,
though there’s also
the shock that it’s happening
at all. Where did
these birds come from?
And how is it they happened
to land here?
And so who could blame us
for laughing out loud
when what had begun
to feel like a burden
turns into a riot
of wing and black feather
and careless cawing,
oh hell, let’s join them,
it makes no sense,
whee! caw, caw, caw.