take one chipped bowl, preferably stolen
from your grandmother’s kitchen,
line it with rumour—the fresher the scandal, the sweeter the shine.
crack open a whispered affair behind the church wall,
beat it briskly with three teaspoons of envy.
fold in the quarrel between sisters,
add a splash of the neighbour’s late-night weeping.
do not skimp. the crow is greedy.
the dull gossip about school fees,
about vegetables gone bad,
he tosses back at you like bones.
but tell him who visited whose house
when the husband was away,
and he’ll drop a garnet, slick as blood, into your lap.
marinate the lies overnight in window-sill shadows,
stir with the long handle of a broom
at dawn, scatter it across the lawn:
you’ll hear the wings, black knives slicing air,
the clink of anklets, bangles, rings
stolen from unguarded wrists,
all raining into your hunger.
beware.
too much spice and he remembers your own name,
your own midnight.
one day, when you offer him
the juiciest morsel of betrayal yet,
he may cackle and ask:
“and what about you?”
then drop nothing but your reflection,
shattered in the silver of his eye.
Artwork by: Andrej Kováčik
