Early still
in
their trajectories,
their
sweeping of the sky,
the
wild geese struggle
to
assume long Vs.
The
wind is fierce. It wrecks
their
letters.
Hard
to make out now
like
me here
writing
toward the storm.
Resistance
I put
my son into a poem.
He
gets itchy
like
it’s roughspun, maybe
tight
around the neck.
He
doesn’t want to amble
over
brambles and brush
with
someone
else’s
spyglass.
Are
there places
we
can’t take each other?
In
dreams I open
all of
my own doors.
Remembrance
This
cardinal, stark
against
the snowdrift
prompts a brief despair
like
the fallen poppy
on
your salt-worn stair.
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Laurie Koensgen lives and writes in Ottawa, Canada. Recent publishers include Rust and Moth, The New Quarterly, The Ex-Puritan, Literary Review of Canada, and The Hyacinth Review. Her latest chapbook, this clingstone love, is with Pinhole Poetry Press. @lauriekoensgen