By Stephanie Pippin
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Struck thrice with a horse-whip I remember my mother’s hat Was something Killed for its feathers. (before I could interfere) Let the children come Unto me knowing nothing Of science or kindness. on his naked head, When I wake I should remember Nothing that happened, But think myself a flower. 24 for having handed me a glass The waves in their gray Ruches remind me Of tormented pigeons. of water not quite clean. At night I am cut Free. I confuse myself With birds. 25 The Peregrine Cast into the white amnesia of clouds he leaves this ground delighted; disappears above the lift of pigeons.
He came home made of glittering rock from the riverbeds, the marrow of what happened there. He came home a Protean con man, folding and unfolding like paper— now lover, now leopard, now swan. 30 Shiloh The shadows of boys move, hunched like animals in the grass under low clouds. They know the territory, its thistles and occasional jays. They know where they buried the dog. Whatever they find is authentic treasure—sometimes a bullet in shallow ground, sometimes a button. The cats have been here too.
41 Pinion So it is true that living makes you lighter, as if dying had made you a solid thing I can hold so painfully close, for a moment I cease being human. Now that I’ve lived to see you vanish, I see what you mean is the same as what you meant living: my windfall, my luck entirely. 42 Summer 1 As if to break my wrist, or will, she foots the glove— makes me know my bones. She is second nature now, like riding a horse at twelve, before my body became my body. At the first touch of air, her wings rise— the vise on my forearm tightens; her hackles are up— three layers of leather punctured and a small cry like an animal’s I realize later is mine.
