When I turned three, the crows began collecting beads.

Carole and Papa would tuck me to the neck in satin and hum heavenly lullabies until their languor carried them to bed.

One night as the candlelight beneath their door flickered out,

I mounted my rocking horse and stared into the white glow of magnolias outside my window.

That’s when the crows, the many murders of them, began their ritual, one night turning up an entire string of pearls.

I never told soft Carole or Papa about my absinthian visions, about the seductive bright yellow of beaks,

How I would thrust my gaping mouth through the window to be fed their pearls,

And wake in a puddle of garnets.