A murder of crows gathers on the porch rails

gossiping. Their conversation drags a dark wind

across my heart. I don’t trust that crowd.

They always know when there will be a death in the house.



Suicide is quiet —

neither explanation

nor complaint.


Without warning


it intervenes

as long thunder

concedes to the steady

pulse of rain.



The incense wafts through

the alleyway of another country—and then he was gone.

His name sealed forever. The priceless

treasure gone down with its ship beyond

the mystic depths.



The mother is leaving

the cemetery.

Even the wind

pauses to let her pass

by, her black cloth

of death

stiff and quiet.



How quickly life turns 

its back on the dead.    

This detachable life

a sound biology —   

eyelash from eye, 

blood from host, 

lunula from finger,

dust  from bone.



A sudden sorrow

of church bells peal

in the city center at dusk—the choir of angels

like grandfather clocks rising above

the yellowing tombs and rooftops

of brass and fire.



About the Poet

A.M. Gwynn‘s most recent work appears in Cold Creek Review. Her work has also appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review, War, Literature & the Arts, Grey Sparrow Journal, Consequence Magazine, Sleet Magazine, and several other literary venues.