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.