Ill Omens by Jonathan O’Such

Jonathan O’Such

We used to play with dead ravens that landed on the path leading up to our black front door. They’d come in flocks, resting on the concrete, burnt into feathery crisps.

We prodded their sizzling carcasses with sharp, wooden sticks, expecting them to make a sound, a squawk, anything at all. They didn’t.

We propped up their bodies like marionettes, making them dance like lovers, breathing, aching, wanting.

But then he came with his shovel and scraped their melted backs off the concrete, and threw them in the green dumpsters in front of our driveway.

We wailed, then forgot, And went to play tag in the yard.