PARADISE SONG
by Gerardo Mena

I saw a street corner crow braving
the weight of a midnight-thick city.
He wore a white single-breast tux
coat with a three-button notch,

his matching satin top hat resting upright
upon the concrete for coins. Between
his beak and breast, that soft puff of feather,
he chinned his violin violently, drawing

the horse hair bow slow over the aching
strings. From his maw he sang glassy-eyed
as he peddled to passersby:
take these broken wings and learn to fly

I looked down at my trembling hands
and noticed bits of guitar underneath
my fingernails. I mouthed to laugh
but only song came out. Shrill. Sweet,

at times, gathering itself upon my tongue,
leaping from my throat, that passage
of projection that falls into the thorax, a child
down a well, that chamber built for deep hum,

housing beating breathing organs
and wet pleurae. Slick, like honesty,
or daring: a fantastical
black bird in the dead of night.