Issue 4, Autumn 2007


By Sarah Spath


Drive me past that bridge
drive past that tree on the river

where the birds gather twigs by the water
where the nests plump up in the branches.

I said yes. 

We’ll cross, but I refuse to hold
my breath for luck, or have

your hand on my knee
when you brake

when my body doesn’t slow with yours.

Your eyes will continue on that road,
but I’ll blow rice from my hand

until the birds come near
until they swallow every grain
until it makes their bellies swell

until they die.
                                    Except, they don’t.

I see them peck
at earthworms in the dirt.

A tail hangs

from a beak.   See the other
half swell, and make a break

for the river.