• Libbie

Caraway

I watched

the feather of a flicker turning in my hand,

the orange needle of its shaft,

a buff softness along one edge

rolled between my fingers.

I watched myself

tuck the feather between the pages

of a book you bought for me

though it wasn’t a book I’d planned to read.

I put it in my suitcase.

The turkey vultures tottered in the air,

and circled in hot silence,

and the watching eye hung somewhere

just above:

Myself at the cliff’s edge,

whine of a harp string,

and you below,

flat in the sun—

a cat, a basking animal.

You lay with wood below your back

and waves below the wood.

Ten years on, I sold the book

and forgot the feather inside,

but at dusk there is a green light on the water

and a fat moon rising from the center of the island

and I still smell the summer, still hear the waves.


Libbie Grant

date unknown

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