Doctor, we call for you because a magpie
flying before us on the way to a touch beats
black against the cross-marked door, because
our throats pulse full, plush pink. Our eyes glaze
cathedral-bright and we’ve already set our fevers
over the fire to boil out what demon has beset us.
Bisect us. Cut out the thing that ails, the shining
shadows that slip our thighs, or boils that break
livid. Sweep into us, cloak-dark. Enter our bones
with your hook-mask, sweet like ambergris, balm-mint
and sharp, over each incision. Then peck out the offal.
Then leave it for the raven, winging over the house,
whistling like an omen cast over every roof.