A murder crows through the trees
of my family and swallows the news.
The magpie hoards the half-truth headlines:
No wings and a tendency to drugs.
They gather to collect the crumbs
of a wasted life, to mourn the journey
of carrier pigeons whose messages failed.
I fly through them all, over the violence
and small talk. Squawks squeeze distance.
“My mum is dead, my mum is dead”.
My family smile, forget the dysfunction.
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