first published in Suburban Witchcraft Magazine

two pupils,
in and out

first the twist of leaves,
tight as an icicle

The souls I wouldn’t try to fix,
the compliments I didn’t give,
and all the hearts who never asked
for mine to be so earnest—

When the hawk lifted above the goats
grazing on the mountain,
into the mist-filtered,
sun-kissed sky,

You draw your knee closer to you in the sand,
tilt it, push it back
as the tide rushes out.

Grief drops, panic rises,
and I’ve got my deflection grin on. 
How many topics would you 
like these words to center?