the skillet, a magpie tells me, she is breathing
there is nothing shiny about the black
except the sharp citrus sizzling

the magpie pulls his wings to his chest
searches me for a reason to fly
away into the mad tenderness of morning

the skillet snaps angrily amidst the grunt
of catfish, salted and seasoned and ready
to be blackened

the magpie, with his dead eyes, tells me
she is breathing, there is nothing shiny
about the the whitening flesh of fish

the skillet explodes into a heated waiting
she is there, nothing but rage, wordless chatter
and lemon juice wafting into the sunlight

the magpie caws, winks, and flies
away to the places high above, cool where maybe
the scent goes, but I can not search.