Aubade With Need to Be Picked Clean


Savannah Bradley

The wine in me spills over 
into morning. I wake 
on the couch in orange dawn, 
blue glow in my home. 
Three crows cawing, cracking 
the collapsible ribcage of a mouse, 
ravage an empty tree branch. 
I open the window and I open 
myself to them, wait to be next. 
I beg them. There’s still some meat 
to me left, I swear, there’s 
something left here to be gutted− 
something to please, please 
take out. A single claw, tugging 
tendon, strung out and pulled 
taut, snapped back. A breeze blows in 
and strands of my hair fall around 
my face. They hold me 
like hands, a thumb’s light brush 
across my cheeks. When the crows 
don’t come I slam my hands 
against the glass, reach 
for my own throat.

About the Author

Savannah Bradley is a Kansas City based poet and graduate student in the M.F.A program at University of Missouri- Kansas City. Bradley is the recipient of the Durwood fellowship at UMKC and also has work in or forthcoming in Bear Review, Barrow Street, Moon City Review, Barzakh Magazine and The Shoutflower.