KD
  • Home
  • About
    • Contributors List
    • KD's Blog
    • Award Nominations
    • Support
    • Contact
  • Press
  • Issues
    • Issue 49
    • Issue 48
    • Issue 47
    • Issue 46
    • Issue 45
    • Issue 44
    • Issue 43
    • Issue 42
    • Issue 41
    • Issue 40
    • Issue 39
    • Issue 38
    • Issue 37
    • Issue 36
    • Issue 35
    • Issue 34
    • Issue 33
    • Issue 32
    • Issue 31
    • Issue 30
    • Issue 29
    • Issue 28
    • Issue 27
    • Issue 26
    • Issue 25
    • Issue 24
    • Issue 23
    • Issue 22
    • Issue 21
    • Issue 20
    • Issue 19
    • Issue 18
    • Serenity
    • Issue 17
    • The Audio Room
    • Issue 16
    • Issue 15
    • Issue 14
    • Play It Again
    • Issue 13
    • Issue 12
    • Issue 11
    • Issue 10
    • Issue 9
    • Issue 8
    • Issue 7
    • Issue 6
    • Hand to Mouth
    • Issue 5
    • Issue 4
    • Issue 3
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 1
  • Submissions

Lisa Marie Oliver

Maybe the Crows

At the coast we make
        a picnic
 
                         on a blanket
looking over the ocean
 
then walk the dunes
 
              before returning for lunch
 
                             to find crows
 
               stealing food,    a sunchip
 
in a sharp beak    flying west.
 
 
All weekend we laugh about it,
           running joke:
 
maybe the crows took it.
 
Missing pendant,
 
                maybe the crows.
 
Salt in the freezer,  maybe the crows.
 
Lost blue sock,
 
                maybe the crows took it.
 
Maybe the crows,
 
                 a tired worn toddler,
 
head resting on my clavicle.
 
 
Maybe the crows,
 
                viewpoint: dark cliffs,
                            bright waters.
 
Maybe the crows
                    that one Spring,
 
               I couldn’t move
from the couch.
 
I watched
               the poplar
                 out my window
 
week after week
 
                until the crows arrived
 
to heft
                   and balance
        each pencil-thin twig.
 
Picky builders,
 
              their nests
made of a hundred
         
                      such twigs,
 
sidewalk
               scattered
 
      with the dropped, discarded.
 
Until one day       they were done
 
               and gone
 
and so was my
 
                          long wound
    
and by summer
I could see
 
           the new adolescents
 
                           hopping from branch
                                                 to branch.

Biography

Picture
​Lisa Marie Oliver (she, her) is a queer Filipina-American poet. Her poems are featured or forthcoming in Book of Matches, Windfall, FERAL, and Literary Mama. She recently completed ARIM, An Artist Residency in Motherhood and is a passionate gardener in her spare time. She lives in Portland, Oregon with her wife and toddler.
back to issue
​Next Poem →
Picture
ISSN 2639-426X
© COPYRIGHT 2018-2021. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
  • Home
  • About
    • Contributors List
    • KD's Blog
    • Award Nominations
    • Support
    • Contact
  • Press
  • Issues
    • Issue 49
    • Issue 48
    • Issue 47
    • Issue 46
    • Issue 45
    • Issue 44
    • Issue 43
    • Issue 42
    • Issue 41
    • Issue 40
    • Issue 39
    • Issue 38
    • Issue 37
    • Issue 36
    • Issue 35
    • Issue 34
    • Issue 33
    • Issue 32
    • Issue 31
    • Issue 30
    • Issue 29
    • Issue 28
    • Issue 27
    • Issue 26
    • Issue 25
    • Issue 24
    • Issue 23
    • Issue 22
    • Issue 21
    • Issue 20
    • Issue 19
    • Issue 18
    • Serenity
    • Issue 17
    • The Audio Room
    • Issue 16
    • Issue 15
    • Issue 14
    • Play It Again
    • Issue 13
    • Issue 12
    • Issue 11
    • Issue 10
    • Issue 9
    • Issue 8
    • Issue 7
    • Issue 6
    • Hand to Mouth
    • Issue 5
    • Issue 4
    • Issue 3
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 1
  • Submissions