ARTSY FARTSY by Robert Lee Haycock |
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BECAUSE I READ MARY OLIVER AND CAN'T HELP BUT NOTICE A NEST by Stefanie P. Buckner Two wrens made a nest inside our shed because we left the doors open one night after working— built a nest there as if the crowded shelf is a branch— as if the musty smell is a fragrance— as if the rusted wrench is really silver turning to gold— as if the old cans of paint are our favorite colors— as if the thunder from the lawnmower is theater— as if the back-and-forth of our steps on the back stairs stomps as steady as hearts in love. How many homes could we make if we saw all we had as enough? We don’t close those shed doors now—life being there. They flutter with the rhythms of the wind like front doors should. |
PHOTOGRAPH by Ruben Briseno Reveles |
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SOOTY WINGS
by Taylor Graham Asleep again beside the hearth, where all these years he's provided fire, October till April or however long the cold stays. Beside him, on the table that blue- green glass fishing float he scavenged off a northern coast, a bit of seaweed still clinging to the hemp net woven around it. Sky caught in glass; it never sinks. Reminder of day-long treks on the chance of sighting peregrine, albatross, or snowy owl. Some primordial need for life. Even those swifts, who found our chimney-gap — sooty black fledglings ricocheting living- room to hall as their mothers called for sky. He wouldn't scrub those wing-prints from white walls. Birds' black testaments of sweep and arc, ascension, fall, and flight. |
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