of crows, they who first saw me at the retreat: week in ohio, more than a little death at my heels. five or six of them, the crows, perched and rattling a dead-top tree, cackled me down a good morning (returned).
a good morning (returned) is what I am seeking; that elusive memory of sunup unhaunted by husband daniel. seeking that breeze unbothered, but there are hornets in ohio too, late june, that inject death their own ways. in my attic room one made a brooch of itself, pinned to the white chest of the wall. i blew on it, and when i looked again it had gone. by my breath! a little danger, so easily misdirected and
a good morning (returned) to see better, the crows, staring down into my grave eyes. offering what? a shofar-choke of a call. announcing what? stop looking for murder. that was a misdirect.
or the misdirect happened ten years ago: the failure of a manhattan high-rise to give any direction but panic in a steady-climbing fire. in the stairwell daniel’s breath stopped, but mine — stay or go? bolded the new york times the next day: in a high-rise fire, made of crow-black smoke, stay in the apartment or go for the stairs? me: unanswerable coma, burn ward on the east side— stay or go?
a “good morning!” (returned) me to the world, maybe. maybe, a good mourning will keep me in it. i couldn’t hear his voice then. i can now.
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Michael Todd Cohen (he/him) is a queer writer, artist and adoptee living in New England. Essays in The Rumpus, Brevity, and Split/Lip, among others. Recipient of the PM Lilac Fellowship for Environmental and Social Justice at Vermont Studio Center (2025). Michael Todd and poet Adrian Dallas Frandle steward Lordship House, a private home with public programs to celebrate and serve the literary community. More: michaeltoddcohen.com