The ravens are in the bins again
bayonet beaks pierce the bags
plucking out their treasures with 
the haughtiness of some long dead
French aristocrat

crimped gold foil, torn chip packets,
the skeleton of a chicken, remnants
picked bare. The morning sun’s fever
swallowed deep into the gloss of blue-
black feathers

they scavenge and sing, and it feels
like something is unravelling. Rot fumes
the air, eggshells crumble beneath my feet, 
crushed into fine gravel. Everything
is dead, but also alive. A million

silvery flies plume into the air in front
of me and I can’t see where I am going.
My unhatched plans buzz in my ears, as
I try to peel away the skin of this lost
year.

Adele Hally is an Australian writer. Her work has appeared in Phantom Kangaroo, Folklore Review, The Marrow Poetry, and the Hunter Writer’s Centre 2024 Grieve anthology. She lives and works in Sydney and is studying part-time for a BA in creative writing at Curtin University.

Appears In

Cagibi Issue 25