In my good night's sleep

In my good night's
sleep high tide
of my dearest rancor turns.

Nary a moon
shied me any glint of it.
Then this little shift,

fish switched its
dorsal ripple opposite;
slack took over. Black water,

blood flavor, settles off
shouldering stone. Reliefs
of ribbed sand rise.

Out to sea slides
flood temperament; it tows
some wrack along as some

lapses to drain behind:
dainty placations kinked in matted
sargassum, mineral chimes.

Martha Zweig "Ebb"

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a robin is ruffling its feathers

The teacher asks a question.
You know the answer, you suspect
you are the only one in the classroom
who knows the answer, because the person
in question is yourself, and on that
you are the greatest living authority,
but you don’t raise your hand.
You raise the top of your desk
and take out an apple.
You look out the window.
You don’t raise your hand and there is
some essential beauty in your fingers,
which aren’t even drumming, but lie
flat and peaceful.
The teacher repeats the question.
Outside the window, on an overhanging branch,
a robin is ruffling its feathers
and spring is in the air.

-Mary Ruefle, The Hand

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I had a canoe that took me into the forest I read about

It was fleet and I asked no questions. I saw the careless embroidery of the sky above me. I was small. I was embracing. And I was dear all my life. My instrument is silent. I never learned to play. But it sits poised in my arms like an amber deer that I'll give my life for. What does it sound like? Why haven't I tried?

She crept into my arms like a red flower a stranger gives me. She is tame and soft. In a low voice, I tell her stories of when I was a girl. I bring her fruit from the brook of my own glad tidings. I overflow and I almost forget her. My hair is wet and I feel I can be alone. I know other songs. But what about my deer? She's sleeping. I fit an arrow through my bow. I kill so she eats. She says if only I'd been a better mother.

Sarah Gambito "Hunger"

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