A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
I ought to study signs and portents.
Had I known that the feather I picked
up outside the grounds of the high school
on Sunset Boulevard would lift me
above the football field and take me back
to those dreadful days, I’d have never
picked it up. They stand for ascension,
you know, Feathers do. The chanting of
wraith cheerleaders rang loud in my ears.
my stomach folded in on itself.
I hit the ground running. It was not
a day for flying. Had I known that
rocking an empty chair brought bad luck,
I’d never have touched our old rocker
to hear it creak. This is the reason
I lost my wallet when I bent down
to pick up that damn feather. It was,
I tell you, not a day for bending down
in front of deserted high schools on
the first day of Fall’s disappointments.
Copyright 2020 Martina Reisz Newberry. From Blues for French Roast with Chicory by Martina Reisz Newberry (Deerbrook Editions, 2020).