My grandmother always told me: “Follow the magpie.” At first, I didn’t understand what it meant And every question was met with a sigh. It was as if she expected me to know Though I suppose I don’t blame her Because she spoke often of magpies Indeed, they were her favorite bird. They flaunt feathers of ebony And glistening hues of green, Blue, white, and a cry so heavenly That the song itself calls to me. Yet, within the bird’s call, Lies something sinister— Or so the superstition says: “The voice of a magpie will lure a righteous woman if she lets it possess her.” A young girl following a magpie Is considered a great sin An evil act, according to men And overtly righteous women. I don’t want to sin. I don’t want to give in. But I want to follow the cry of a magpie. And now, the cycle of shame begins. I hate myself for wanting it. So much. But I can hear freedom in its very song, And I think my grandmother heard it, too. All along.