I have a crow. A dumb one that all the sudden likes to talk. Love like it's dinner he says. Black snow is impossible so don't even try it. Squawk, squawk.

The bird is a small version of my ex-husband—the one who held me like an overcoat,  spouting 'adorable! adorable!' I remember the water all over my shoes.

The crow likes to go places under my blouse. When the engine gets going, it's all-nite neon and slugs of hard vodka. There's a hole in my chest where the fondle throttles. He plays my hair like a harp—I do karaoke numbers.

I have a beautiful voice. It puts footprints on the ceiling. Push record or  play—you can chorus me, etc. My secret eats worms I drop down my bra—I call him 'Yesterday.' He chirps:

A field is the perfect form, so I dance too. I dance fields shimmering in Nebraska. Yellow wheat, white dust—the grass frisking itself. I tie the stalks end to end and shimmy down the window. 
"Yes," for short.