"Killdeer" by Robert Wilson

in

Two killdeer nest on the river stones circling a rusty storm drain. She flattens her wings and
head as I walk by as if she were ashamed of living in poverty at the bottom of a hill. Her mate
comes close and flashes his orange tail feathers, then rows away, a broken oar hanging over the
gunnel of his body, tempting me to follow. Both birds wear black collars above their tan and
white bodies, and from the summer solstice until Ashura take turns nesting or pretending at
broken bones. Somewhere from the trail that lifts to the summit I hear a voice say, “I can’t love
you the way you need to be loved.” The words drop clearly in my direction like gravity’s ashes
telling me I am inadequate and at fault for being alone.

In four weeks, four eggs will awaken and stones will appear to shed their skins. When the chicks hatch, the parents remove the shells far from the birthing site. Killdeer are named after their two note trill, a treaty signed with deceit to keep their little ones safe. Lavender, which is a spring bloom, grows wild along the trail that lifts to the summit of the hill near the nest. Each afternoon I like to walk to the top and break open fallow ends, surprised each time that I can still smell purple even while I am out of breath.

 

Robert Wilson is a writer whose poems have most recently appeared in Welter and SoFLoPoJo. His poem Dolphin Tour was nominated for Best of the Net in 2023 and his poem Spring Tide was the 2024 winner of the Water to Words contest sponsored by the Seneca (New York) Park Zoo Society. He lives beside the ocean in Cape Haze, Florida.

"Margaret" by Robert Wilson

in

I wait in the pickup/drop off area listening for the warning bell from the South Shore Limited
from Chicago. Small birds the color of clouds balance on the rails, rust collecting on their toes,
three pointing forward, one pointing back. The birds startle as the train floats to a stop like a
funeral procession for momentum, then commuters, scholarship Catholics, and my daughter,
descend. She carries a Fair Trade Bag and wears a pewter Christmas necklace made of two
crossed swords, and sat facing the wrong way so all she could see was the past. My mother died
three late nights and one dawn after my daughter was born. They are both named—one, then the
next—Margaret. A woman of that same name lived inside a dragon seven hundred years ago and became one of the Fourteen Holy Helpers. Most railroad crossings are uncontrolled, a matter of chance for all who pass. We should be grateful to have a limited body, like mine, like yours.

 

Robert Wilson is a writer whose poems have most recently appeared in Welter and SoFLoPoJo. His poem Dolphin Tour was nominated for Best of the Net in 2023 and his poem Spring Tide was the 2024 winner of the Water to Words contest sponsored by the Seneca (New York) Park Zoo Society. He lives beside the ocean in Cape Haze, Florida.