The Crow Was Finch

Last night I had a dream

that Finch came back as a crow,

blackened wings folded like maps

he never got to read.

There was fog in the trench,

maybe memory, maybe

something older, thick with teeth.

I don’t know what death looks like

when it forgets your name.

He landed on my shoulder,

held something in his beak.

A tag. Burned, unreadable.

I woke with the weight still there,

his claws curled in my skin,

the echo of gunfire soft and far.

And I stayed still,

listening hard for orders,

hoping this time

he’d tell me where he went.

By: Dan Reed