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the faithful shadows
swivel around forest floor
—how gentle,
the edges—
tilt the vowel skyward
like a little
handmirror—
—hold bright
the threshing sun—
From Little Mercy by Robin Walter. Copyright © 2024 by Robin Walter. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC, on behalf of Graywolf Press.
Today was the first day I saw
the father of the chicks
come to the antlers—First,
he landed on the doorframe—looked at me
hard—before making the short flight
to nest—
The mother came busily on his tail-feathers—
a small grey worm in her beak—
ushered him out of her way—
If you root around
hard enough,
of course you will find
the letter that begins
the body—at least
what you now know
of it. Something here about
memory—or, something
about the wound itself
bearing the body—