I didn’t ask for this body;
feathered, hook-mouthed, dark
as night windows. Broken
glass from an accident
could not be more flight-prone
but I like it, the catching wind hurling
me ruffled to elsewhere.
Am I crossing borders? Who knows
I only tasted
flesh, I did not ask
if it was human.
Mourning is something I do a lot of
in my own way.
I sit on the powerlines
and watch the hazelnuts in the road.
Sometimes a truck comes.
Small things but they are strong
it takes a cargo to break them.
But guilt is not a question
I ever learned to phrase.
If the world grinds things up
despite their brown armor
that is its own business.
Mine the crumbs:
bushes, transformed.
I was blonde once
maybe
you can tell your children.
Second Place
Hart House Poetry Contest