by
Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh
“Ravens
are the birds I'll miss most when I die. If only the darkness into
which we must look were composed of the black light of their limber
intelligence. If only we did not have to die at all. Instead, become
ravens.”
“Why
should I return, Mother?”
“To be a thing of beauty, my love.”
“But they don't appreciate beauty
there. They refuse to see.”
“Even more reason for you to go
back.”
She is not a common raven. She is
small and glossy and cunning.
She alights onto pale, parched ground
feeling somewhere between goddess and raven and woman.
She releases her night feathers, the
lightness of flight, the movement between airs.
And, the earth enshrouds her in opaque,
rough black cloths. They flow almost weightless as she enters our
ethers.
“Did
ever raven sing so like a lark,
That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise?”
That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise?”
She tilts like spring flowers toward
the rising sun soaking its heat and becomes real.
A dying man visiting North Africa sees
her emergence from her swirling unkindness. His eyes at the end of a
long life now see her and are almost blinded by her exquisiteness.
Her unblemished, tight, white skin, her tallness, her curves, her way
of staring fearlessly into his mind and heart and right through him.
She needs to feed and takes his failing
heart.
He takes her photo and passes away
before developing his last, departing shot.
His busy, responsible daughter no
longer interested in trying to get her siblings to help organize and
tired of sorting through his hoarded things takes boxes and boxes of
unexamined junk to the Goodwill.
Weeks later, a couple who adores
antique cameras finds a cheap, vintage Hasselblad. To their
surprise, they find it still has film.
They discover a photo of black birds
circling an empty desert.
The wife finds it eery and depressing.
One of her early childhood memories was watching a crow eat road kill
at the side of long, dirt road. Her brother had told her lies about
death and black birds and bad luck. She remembered knowing she
would get out of that town and away from death if she just ran away
along that road kicking up dust and never looking back.
The husband thinks he sees long black
tresses that remind him of Jessica with whom he has been having an
affair. For a moment, he thinks of telling her everything. Instead,
he gathers his keys and wallet and mutters something about getting a
beer.
Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh earned her BA in English Literature from the University of Virginia but is more proud of the friendships she earned through her social justice work in Charlottesville, Virginia. She has been in several anthologies online and in print. Her main blog is Charlottesville Winter at cvillewinter.wordpress.org.
Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh earned her BA in English Literature from the University of Virginia but is more proud of the friendships she earned through her social justice work in Charlottesville, Virginia. She has been in several anthologies online and in print. Her main blog is Charlottesville Winter at cvillewinter.wordpress.org.
