THE SHORTEST DAYS

cornfields

“October black birds and cornfields” by Linda Storm

Because I am so happy for you and the life you made
beautiful from the scraps of what we were given. What

we thought were scraps but maybe was our precious
inheritance. I can see it, the guy on Antiques Roadshow —

the blond twin — saying, “This is a national
treasure,” and opening a forged metal box of red maple

leaves, tart apples, snow sky, the calls of Canada geese
winging in formation. Getting the hell out of there. That place Continue reading

REGENERATION

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There’s a candy wrapper and an unused match
on the bathroom floor. A covert picnic,
abandoned. I’ve come here to press my face
against the cool white tile. Summer is ruthless

today in its death throes. Where hurricanes can’t
touch land, the earth quakes. Where the flood water
doesn’t rush in, the earth burns. How
should I reinvent myself in the this exodus

from one season into the next? This liminal space
where even the mirror is a blank uncertainty.
I travel with less baggage these days, casting
ballast off like sin. Even my bones

grow lighter. I should be densely built
for the long winter; I am the dry ligaments
of a skeletal wing. A thing of parchment,
exhalation, the cellular memory of flight.