The Chaplain and the Crow

The chaplain waits in the doorway,
like a crow on a black branch in winter,
looking for glittering things lying lost in the snow.

She swoops into the hospital room on black sleeves
with sharp glasses and a calm voice.
She speaks of making peace,
sees my mother laying quietly alone,
no family around.

Bird smell fills my nostrils. Her words make her slow.
I leap from my chair, take her throat
in my teeth, and wring
the chaplain around the room,
shaking her like a sock.

Author's Note

This poem needs to go one step further - I made a couple edits uploading it here, but it's still not quite there yet.