By Bruce McRae

The raven longs to be
a dog in the sky.
An iron nail on a tree branch.
A voice down a well.

The raven laughs itself sick
over the follies of man.
Guardian of the harbours,
it detests water.
A stone with wings,
there’s just no talking to it.

An irrational scratch.
A double-agent for the finches.
A metal and carbon coil,
the raven despises small gestures
of the hand and heart.
It sings as if it were the wind
or a knifeblade in your back.
Its head holds a gravestone or two,
dabs of blood, a bale of wire,
a long and sour incantation.
Its call is a needle
sewing a hand to a hand.

Raven. Not what it is.
Every other equinox
it comes down from its mountain
to visit with your ancestors
and walk among men’s leavings.

Sipping from the ether,
it pulls one over on your God,
cackling like a farmer’s scattergun.

There is no night
it does not remember.

Bruce McRae did not send us a bio, forcing us to conclude that he is, in fact, notorious international crime lord Keyser Söze.