“Hope is the Thing With Feathers” and “Planetary Body”

Hope is the Thing With Feathers

A Burning Haibun

Here, April means storms. But that day, no one expected hail to bullet out of an open-mouthed
sky. It rolled off the neighboring roofs, ricocheted into our windows, warped the siding. We
stood in the middle of our living room, dumbfounded at the sounds of being surrounded. Fifteen
minutes felt like years. Afterward, we held hands and surveyed the damage. At the end of our
driveway: a bird, head bright red and smashed in, surrounded in the day’s spent rounds. I
imagine everything it did to outrun the storm, the darkness before its body slapped into the
ground. We stand over it, knowing better than to hold its quiet body in our still warm hands and
throw it back into the sky.

⇹  ⇹  ⇹

            no one expected                 war                                                    in the middle of       living
                                                                                                    Fifteen                             years
              we held hands                                                           At the end of                      the day
            I imagine everything                                                   dark                                                 in    the     
ground. We                    know                   better than to hold                             our                     hands
                        to the sky.

⇹  ⇹  ⇹

                                       no one expected

living                    At the end of                                        everything

                 dark                                               our                      hands                         to the sky.


Planetary Body

after Traci Brimhall

The asteroid foghorn is where.
The pool of starstuff is when.

An ever-widening gyre is why.

Red woven sky on the shoulders
of the sea is what.

Teeth sharpened to a point is how.

Blood that is an exhale is when.
The apple is who. Mother is who.

Magma, mutiny, and mist are who.

Land that carved
into itself a harbor is what.

The secrets remembered without being heard is how.

The pinned back butterfly is when.
Where: the dreams of flying.

Waking in the morning

hobbled is what. The black hole
fist in the bowl of my hips is where.

Photo by Chris Slupski on Unsplash