Beckon

As the ragged fluke disappears
beneath the waves beneath the blue beneath
the faceless dark—we
look for it again—a welcome
puff welcome spout the spray
is breath and that’s relief
from the great unyielding field
of sea—wet and nameless—but for this
fellow eye and will, whose simple
brawn shrinks
all else and s l i d e s —
a ridged hump a spine
split rudder paddle tail
dark above and white
below and who
sees the vast pale underbelly
and does not weep, does not sing
does not slip into the sea’s great trance—
and follow, swallow, bellow

Ash Summer

    —for Michael & Lynn Thamer

Two packhorses emerge from morning haze, roan
and shy, piled high with leather boxes
and canvas bags, tools cinched. Their shaded
trail, wagging dog, the hands that loaded them—
not here. Just an ash-grey bird dragging
her long tail they follow out of the yard
—leather creaking when they shift their weight—
through smoke that’s hung, an amber fog,
draping weeks. It’s driven the wild
into our streets. An ember drifts by—
or orange butterfly?
Shouldn’t I feed them, I think,
searching my mind for bale of hay
or pail of oats, before they walk away?
They make no sound leaving
while yellow curtains fall.

— Mary Fitzpatrick

In our ECO LIT series, Red Canary Magazine dedicates space for established writers and emerging voices to imagine better ways of being.