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by Catherine Owen

OCD Crow came home depressed tonight. This happens sometimes. There are reasons or there are few. Either way, she tries not to flay her psyche with guilt over this self-indulgence. Being maudlin is pathetic. But there it is. She walked back in the dark, having felt the black claw descend, nearly paralyzing her and filling her only with the desire to be alone, to curl up and vanish. Hard to capture this state with the camera. These only traces of the need for sleep, concealment. The grim, hollow, miserable state that overtakes. She had recalled him brushing her hair at one point. And his patient gestures, his sweetness, rushed back into her and there was instant mourning again for this lost intimacy. Feeling doesn’t come as easily as it used to. Though entering through the parking garage, she was moved by the sight of spiders in their glittering webs strung from the dusty fluorescent lamps, so focused on their prey, contained wholly in this completely necessary moment. Not knowing what to do with herself, OCD Crow took photos of nothingness and laid down.



That last weekend, you combed my hair

Really drew the brush through each black strand

Freshly conditioned, wet from the shower

You could be so patient like this, spend

Hours on a repeated riff, or the hot bead of the torch’s

Glide, or sometimes even simply space out to music,

To absence, staring off until I asked why aren’t you doing something.

This was one of my failures, how I measured

Usefulness in action, in motion’s varied forms.

Yet now I sit still often, gazing forward into nothingness

Though since you died, my hair is usually knotted –

No one to sleek the comb’s slow teeth through the snags

To say pretty & admire the simple handiwork of intimacy.