"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.

"Sarai" by Robert Wilson

in

As we age, the language thief steals
our important words.
God is an important word.
So is Serophene, three rings
of nitrogen, oxygen, and hydrogen
supported by a carbon backbone
that creates underlying conditions
and risks of complications.

Tonight, the clouds are filled
with young rain wrapped in ice,
the desert soundscape moves between
the exchange surfaces inside and outside
your mind.
Your tongue rides high to find
the letter N.
The laughing thrush, the old world sparrows
form a bursting star pattern against
the permeable sky.

 

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.

"Casio 1301 MTA-4000" by Agniv Sarkar

in

Last night I was locked in my father’s watch,
hidden away in a dark drawer,
counting blind.
The timer started to roll over as soon as
its hands began to approach the hour.


I woke up from the dream,
sickly sweat under the watch.
It was scared of its half-truths,
from analog to digital,
from form to function.


Once, time slipped from my grasp,
but still it clung to me.
The watch was old and it kept
the old time, so it felt heavy on the hand.
Without it, the lightness felt dizzying,
the time lost.


As soon as I could, I reclaimed the time
I aimed to make it mine.
And those who saw it paused.
Gave it more than a seconds thought (the watch knew),
and it had moved on from being my father’s.

 

Agniv Sarkar is a student of mathematics and philosophy, leaving high school early to further these pursuits. He found poetry through philosophy and found the intersection of the two able to create the most beautiful artwork.

"Sunset Feathers" by Katie McHugh

The setting sun, iridescent gold, flaunts its tail like a peacock, and we, like peahens, bow our heads in praise. Choose me, we plead with wide eyes and pale feathers. Come back tomorrow.

But the sky grows darker still, and soon, the day is an echo of birdsong on the horizon, lost in the spinning of the world.

 

Katie McHugh is a writer from Long Island, NY. She is the recipient of Boston University's Florence Engel Randall Award.