A TRUE WHISPER SONG BY SAMANTHA MADWAY

spring

is summer

is eggshells in the grass,

fledglings prophesying future flights;

is small dugouts made to be missed, lined with

forget-me-nots of fur; is hoping to live to eventually,

opening eyes and finding forelimbs, lucky feet quick to flee.

​

summer

is summer

is a smashed egg

on the sidewalk, yoke

spreading like an oil spill, like

humors from a cracked-open corpse;

is the silhouette of something that didn't get

to die; is the swelter and saunter of approaching storms.

​

day

is night

is morning after,

nest marks the spot; is

an empty nursery pitched from

a tree, converting from crime scene

to act of grief; is throwing gauntlets at graves;

is learning where mourning doves got their name.