I can't smell cinnamon
anymore, thanks to all of the
chemicals I've put up my nose
to burn my nasal cavities
and memories of a phoenix.
Yet still I rise through the ashes
of cigarettes stubbed out by
the ones asleep on the couch
or floors, and I hear the squeak
of an opening front door –
and I step into a sunny November
and just like you, crow,
I spread my wings and jump -
never once regretting trying to fly
before I knew just how to crawl.