| Andrena Zawinski, Associate Editor |
USA
ON ANCIENT WINGS IN JANUARY The little black grackles keep coming back for more. They pick stale caramel corn from the sack, swallow them whole, toe-dancing snowdrifts, all bobs in the delight of the find. Even city doves wait their turn in the blizzard of birds, in the yes yes yes of it. One flies a warning, yellow-eyed at my face, as if I would rush her feathers for a spicy hat, her belly for a bit of meat to glaze, breast a bone from which to pull a wish. From where I stand behind the window glass, it is only this upon which I fix my eyes and my desire-- the wind along lacy wing bars, early light that flirts a wash across the crown, sheen on bellies and bobs. If these blackbirds survive the cold another morning, then so will I. We have these things that hold us here, this watch, sweet feast, the voiceless scavenging-- the yes oh yes of it. Credits: This poem is from the author's manuscript, Wildfires, and has appeared in Rockhurst Review: A Fine Arts Journal CHIAROSCURO FOR REFLECTED LIGHT (inspired by Louis MacNeice's Snow) Sometimes the way the light moves in and spins the chime of porcelain gulls to streak across the drawn and muted shade, I'm taken back beneath a tinsel rain on waves that ebb out to the sea. Sometimes the way the light slips through a crack inside the frame before a freeze, all arms and legs, I forage angels from the snow and laugh out loud at winter running wild again. Sometimes when light ruffles edges of paper slips, notices of half-done things, it travels dream in all things touched and yet to be. Sometimes so dazzling brilliant resplendent, the mere delight in light will swell the room, and I can see there is more than this squint of glass between the sun and the shade. Credits: This poem appears in Traveling in Reflected Light, a collection of poetry from Pig Iron Press by the author and has appeared in Plainsongs and in Petroglyph. © All Copyright, Andrena Zawinski. |
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