Nailing Wings to the Dead

Since we nail

wings to the dead,

she calls ravens

from the sky

to inspect our work. “For flight,”

they say, “first remove their boots.”

She leans in,

inspects a fresh hex

behind my eyes,

takes my feet

and lays them on the fire,

to burn it out, roots first.

We’re the last,

babička and me.

We’ve survived on

chance and bread

baked from the last store of grain.

And as we’re out of both,

we will die soon.

They are gathering

in the well.

We disrobe.

She hums whilst