Grief Is the Thing with Feathers

by Max Porter

MAN Did I respond as well as you’d hoped? BIRD Better. But the credit should go to the boys, and to the deadline. I knew that by the time you sent your publisher your final draft of the Crow essay my work would be done. MAN I would be done grieving? BIRD No, not at all. You were done being hopeless. Grieving is something you’re still doing, and something you don’t need a crow for. MAN I agree. It changes all the time. BIRD Grief? MAN Yes. BIRD It is everything. It is the fabric of selfhood, and beautifully chaotic. It shares mathematical characteristics with many natural forms. MAN Like? BIRD Where to begin. Oh, feathers. Turds? Waves? Honeycomb? String? Intestines? Bones? Feathers, said that, cat-flaps, wait, no, wait, hats, maps, traps, books, rooks, creeks, peek in my beaks in my … MAN This is ridiculous. I feel that if my wife’s ghost had ever haunted me, now would be the time she’d start whispering, ‘You need to ask Crow to leave.’