Apples and Crows
(Trigger Warning: Death and Trauma)
She was little, only this tall and this wide,
tiny melons sat in her rosy cheeks.
He was little—triple her age, but only this allowed and this
worn, tiny sticks sat in his hollowed arms.
They were little together, like beads on the same string.
Like two flowers, growing under a sun lamp
like two bumblebees,
floating in a garden
like two words stuck on the same tongue.
She sang sweet songs that were really shrill songs
but he listened, and never
ever
ever
stopped smiling—
until he did, when crows held open his mouth,
and apples lodged in his throat.
When worms wiggled their way through arteries
and purple dusted his cheeks.
They were little together, went on trips
to discover and explore fresh air before
he went away, gasping with his mouth closed.
She was a Birch tree. Hardy, strong, pale.
He was—
was he growing?
She didn’t think so. Other people’s big brothers were big.
His limbs ached and stretched, but her head towered above his.
They were little together. Their final trip
wasn’t to a faraway land,
but to a castle nearby.
Towering and blue, she felt like a princess
only she was not the one being carried in.
It was drying soil housed with wiggling worms,
where ravens call and pluck them loose,
where she sang a final song that fell on deaf ears.
The apple lodged in his throat grew worms.
They crawled all the way down,
and grew a nest inside.
They were little together until she was enveloped
by a flock of screams and cries and
cold embraces
until she heard that guttural choking sound—
not from him.
She’d never heard her father cry before.
Until all was silent.
Until when she stumbled over to have a look at him
nestled in his own cloud of soft,
and touched his chilled blueberry skin.
They were little together.
Now, she is big.