There is a dead crow in the freezer, Annie

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Annie, my baby, we need to start talking in a very different light. Life is a beautiful tapestry of shapes and transmutations. People want to negotiate in dualities, in the yes or no. Gender will be dead soon, and good riddance, I say. There is a dead crow in the freezer and you should feel its weight. A crow is heavier than you’d think. Hollow bones count for something, Annie. He’s beautiful, just lovely, but when we slice him open, we will see the eggs that were forming in his belly. Like words. Like disease. Like when you used to lay awake, afraid that ants would crawl in your vagina. And you counted them, didn’t you, Annie? Every single one. You should fill it with something, but ants are a bad deal. Pedestrian. You and your sister should know this. You’ve seen the absence and heard the sound of the red beads as they click against your new teeth. Some might describe it as a void. The crow’s feathers looked like oil against the spring grass. That’s why I picked it up.

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About Author

Nicole Mason received her M.A. in Literature at Northern Michigan University and teaches Composition and Creative Writing at Indiana University of South Bend. Her poems have appeared in The Chiron Review and Ramshackle Review and are forthcoming in (b)OINK and Cease Cows.

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