Apr/May 2008 Poetry Special Feature |
Found Objects
I'm a widow now, and my dreams fill
with a strange sort of flight. No lift beyond
the tree tops really, and I wake with muscles sore.The feather he knifed into a quill,
made me promise to scribble love letters
when he was long-haul trucking.But the black feather split, left nothing
but smudges and blots. Two hawk feathers
gathered up in Colorado, a fence-cut saplingbent into a dream catcher, but the contraption
moved oddly in the dark, twisted up
my sleep, drained the color from the morning sky.A sad collection of headdresses, beaded
flapper belts, a slow accumulation of haphazard
feathers from crow, blue jay, cardinal, and titmouse.I kept them for his love, imagined
his thick and clumsy fingers constructing charms
in the dark cab of his truck, down time hoursswirling back to me. I keep them in a box
beneath our bed, one owl feather found on a walk
I've tacked to the bird's-eye headboard.His presence has found its way back home,
spins like a feather above the bed, chases dreams
away before their natural ends, small sounds
attacking the windows, trees full of restless birds.