Crow

 

It is almost winter and we are not wearing enough clothes.

 

Soggy in wet wool

our coffees cold and full on the table.

 

The café is carpeted in fake grass

and I hate it.

 

The bad things that happened to you last night

cling to the window

like condensation.

 

We walk across Clapham Common as it gets dark.

 

Orange fur hangs over the city.

I can’t tell

the difference between

sunsets and street lights.

 

We pass a dark body of water.

I can’t tell

the difference between

puddles and paddling pools.

 

We decide that vaginas smell like soil and roots

and dirty, earthy things and that

cycling in the dark

makes us feel clever and brave

and alive.

 

I want to wrap you in brown paper and carry you

your head a heavy hydrangea

in the crook of my elbow.

 

A crow drips across the night and I think

that she is like both of us.

 

Experts say

that most crows are adaptable

but often shy when persecuted.

 

I keep on pressing my fingers into my hip bones

and pulling the sleeves of my jumper

over my hands.