'Crow's Eve' & 'In Pythonissam Est Hora': Two Poems by Ivy Robb


In the air, something churns.

Crows rattle and click overhead,

in their kingdom of branches,

shifting on black, wire legs.

Drunken on berries.

Children dance below the trees

in which these spirits perch

in gowns and masks,

their cheeks wine-red,

in a looming forest of birch.

Taunting with waving hands and throwing rocks,

handfuls of decaying leaves and thread.

The sweet smell of Autumn Harvest,

sharp twinge of what is dead.

The crows look down, the children have forgotten

that they are watching,

still clothed in orange and rotting.

Among the echo of beating wings,

and the cease of children’s squabble,

forms a murder of onyx feather

ripping of body, gnashing of beaks.

Flesh consumed, and bones left to dry.

The remnants of something so awful.

They swallow and sing in harmony,

grateful but not lacking.

Their bellies full,

and distended.

Below the trees,

grey, pale, skin that the crows brought forth,

malnourished, ashen.

To feast upon and breathe into.

No complaints of their ration.



the witch opens her eye third,

third time, the one


her brows,

is milky like an opal stone


it sees more

than the emerald


she has two of

her hair is like onyx


her hat like a

black cat curled up,

with the ferns of last autumn,

or the dying of a moth

tucked between

its folds

this all fades quickly

when she is summoned

like white sage in a

possessed home

where the priest can’t find

the demons

but give her time

to rub the red sandalwood

like dog’s blood

between her limber fingers,

so that when the priest

does see the


she is found within it


Ivy Robb is an emerging poet and artist living in Northern Minnesota. She has been studying poetry independently for several years and studied poetry as an undergrad for a short time where she truly fell in love with the craft. She holds an Associate’s degree in art and plans to further pursue a writing career in poetry.

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