Totum Revolutum

by Edwin Williamson


I’m sitting down to eat crow.  
The waiter has my mother’s hands.  
A crow is sleeping on the sun, it  
smells like what heaven tastes like.  
A wolf is eating the sound out of my ears.  
Osamu Dazai is kissing me on the beach  
in Kamakura, while crows dance like newborn  
babies in the sea. It’s raining rotten fruit  
on the planet, Earth, and I’ve never been  
so turned on by flesh before.  
An old crow tells me to sink my teeth  
in, but everyone knows men don’t have mouths.  
You don’t realize how much is fundamentally wrong  
with society until you’re in a bowling alley. 
The conservative body of my nightmares  
is strolling by, winking eight eyes and letting  
me know that nightmares make children laugh.  
I’m sinking upwards—thinking about you—  
forgetting about the crow in my fridge  
and the new head it’s currently growing.  
I’m going to eat until I’m starving.  
My plate opens its eyes and kisses me  
hard on the mouth.  
There are no crows left in the world. 


About the Author:

Edwin Williamson is a junior at Central Michigan University majoring in English Literature and minoring in Art History and Anthropology. He is from Metro Detroit and currently lives in Mt. Pleasant, where he spends his days staring directly at the sun.

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