There is a patch of clover in my back garden. If I stand in it at night, I can hear a crow calling my name. It calls my true name, not the name I answer to during the day. In the crow’s insistent voice, my name is ugly, like adultery or running away when my grandpa split his head and it was my fault.
Alina Rios spent the first part of her life in St. Petersburg, Russia, and now lives in Seattle with her 6-year old son and a ghost-cat. Her work has appeared in Apex Magazine, Camroc Press Review, Neon, StarLine, The Colored Lens, and elsewhere. www.alinarios.com