From the valedictorian, from
the salutatorian, from the row of
seated conceited professorial
the nervous flap is contagious.
The field frowns, furrows
form in consternation. Though
Poe’s raven was black, it’s
the white one we watch for, the one
we never see that can crush us.
The Raven said it all: love
and Lenore and nevermore.
No one yawns, no one dares
blink a beady eye. Ravenous,
our appetites have carried us
to the brink where we hover
not quite above it all. Not quite
able to keep the proper perspective.
From whose shoulders do Odin’s
Thought and Memory perch now?
Each time the audience claps,
that’s one more wing that snaps.