Two Poems by Joshua Daniel Edwin


Crows can’t teach you how to ride a bike. Or how to till a field. Or even how to haunt someone who richly deserves it. Crows don’t seem to have the inside scoop on how to make yourself at home inside your body. If they accept their aches and pains with greater equanimity than us, their feathers and their croaking calls don’t signal how it’s done. If your sister tells you that you don’t know how to raise your kids, if your mother lets you know that same sister’s always righter than you’ll ever be, if you can’t seem to split the film that separates you from the world the others move through easily, don’t look to the crows. The blackness of their wings is not the standard of a grief-conquering philosophy. Its depth and beauty are not a balm. If you find comfort in the well-dark of the crow, know that you’ve carved that space out of yourself. Why would they help? It is very wrong to think that god entrusts his secrets to the crows.