The dead canaries
are still screeching
as the wolves claw at the door.
They told me that dead
birds mean new
beginnings but all I see
are shattered
hopes.
I looked the corpse
in the eye and
I swore that
I could see the shape
of tomorrow in smoke
and razor teeth
reflected in glassy beads.
I paid the hag
in gold coin,
and then the witch
took the rotted
thing away,
still shouting.
The dead canaries
are forever screaming
as the wolves break down the door.
