Volta
       

One by one the three stray geese
heading away toward Mt. Tom swerve
and are pulled into the bold V
moving toward me over the splintered
remains of the cornfield.

It's almost Christmas.
The gouged mud of the field
has frozen solid, sharp
even through boots.

What do they feel through their feathers,
up there, that's out of our reach?

For a moment I imagine my hands pierced
by all those quills.

Tweet

Copyright © 2021 Karina Borowicz All rights reserved
from Rosetta
Ex Ophidia Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission