Issue 12 Editor’s Prize for Poetry
Their long necks dip when I toss the last of my frozen peas.
Gray bodies slick with Midwest morning rain,
slowing their insatiable wandering as they bend
to gorge on the worms beneath the mud.
But always, there’s one who stands still,
her attention on me, her eyes cool as the first morning to hold a hint of fall.
Then, she stretches her neck toward the crying sky,
as if to say—
The worms can wait for me to bask.
They’ll fly south when winter comes,
and by the time they return
I’ll likely be gone.
From inside the sky, maybe they can’t see I’m sick.
Or maybe they can.
Maybe that’s why they study me as I melt into the mud, the humid rain spilling
down my brittle skin, black rainboots sinking
into the soft earth beside their flat footprints.
My face upturned,
hands stretched toward the crying sky,
declaring—
The worms can wait for me, too, to bask.