It's like my grandmother
is still in the room.
She left me a pet crow
that mimics her sentences
and familiar phrases:
Feed the damn crow!
Who left the door open?
It is illegal to have a wild bird
but I have the papers
to prove this bird's history
is all aboveboard.

But each time I hear its voice
I have to remind myself
that grandma passed away,
that I will no longer go
to her small house for a cup of tea,
no longer hear her crow's nattering
on its perch by her big bay window;
What're ya looking at?
That's a funny looking mailman.


This poem first appeared in The Prairie Journal (2020, issue #73).
Used here with permission.