Gifts From Birds

When I feed the crows, they bring me marbles.
They bring the rusted hinges of doors, pieces of foam,

bits of bone from dead mice. The rotting claw of a crab,
a screw, a broken light bulb. A crow never forgets

a face—they bring the gifts directly to my mouth, straight
to the tip of my nose.

I know when I’m being watched. I know when someone
close to me has died—I can feel it in my blood before

the phone bleats death. Crows, too, know
of this remembering hurt, the face that threw the stones.

When the bread is driest, the hunger the neediest—
the remembering is a stiff arm of grace, the face that preens

me gold. My feathers become small mirrors, my chest:
a fruit ripened black. I remember this face—I bring stones

beat soft by water, beads made of ink and glass, a button,
a bolt, a paperclip.