Fictional crows
Blooming in the swamp-lands
The faintest streak of red brushing their brows.

The first one, half-torn and scruffled Jacob,
Growls at me in his haste to flee.
“You know the only thing binding
Stephen, who swallowed electric veins,
And Carol, whose hands were stained with prayer,
Is eternity.”

Jacob snortles and cackles and ruffles feathers
Against the mud.

I try telling him that I don’t agree,
Because we all have different eternities.
And Sylvia will taste the sweetness of fire
While Vidya will breath rebirth.
But Jacob reminds me with the cruelty of his cartilage
That a million different eternities make
Little difference to time
Even if we assert Eternal Providence.