Migrations

Remember the time we were in Portland, rain
pissing down and me mad as hell over some silly thing
I can’t remember anymore. Kids in the back seat,
you in the drivers seat, you preferring
the drivers seat. I don’t know why
it seems so funny now, your wide eyed surprise
and my door slamming stomp down the road
one block, then three, cursing the day and
the turn back, the car still there by the curb
so quietly magnetic as I got back in, said
nothing. We laugh now, you and the kids and me
as you say, remember the time Mom walked off,
remember how you asked if she was
ever coming back? How we migrate, strengthen
our wings, rise on thermals. The Vireos, strokes of yellow
on raw canvas sky, congregate in the backyard Katsura,
find seed inside husks on bare branches. For a few days
in January, Trumpeter Swans tip themselves in the shallows
off Sarsons Beach. They stretch necks under ice water,
eat what clings to the bottom, what they need
to sustain flight.

‘Migrations’ Published in CONTEMPORARY VERSE 2 – The Canadian Journal of Poetry and Critical Writing, Summer Issue, Volume 36 No. 1.

‘Migrations’ selected as Leaf Press Monday’s poem

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12 thoughts on “Migrations

  1. i cant tell if my comment earlier posted…i like how you weave together the door slamming walking off…wondering if you were coming back…and the swans…swans have susch symbolism from my time in dance…really great closure on this…

  2. First of all.. this was all new to me.. a great poem. I love how you mix the personal story.. and those memories now glossed with time to be funny (I’m sure it wasn’t at the time)… and those Swans by the end… migrating in time and space…

  3. really intriguing blend…between the story of mom and wondering if she was ever coming back…and the swans…
    swans carry great symbolism for me since my time in dance….cool closure…

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