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Post Road Magazine #34


Melissa Oliveira

We’re given a winter sky
to read, unburdened by snow,

a wing for a ladder, throats
open enough to spill spring.

We’re given tongues, quills, songs we
write with our feet in hoarfrost

and what tricked us into a
mottled shell cracked. Remember

how we set its pieces on
a stone clean as a March blade?

I wonder which you see: the
hunter’s arrow, or the one

we make together when we
are falling into sky, down

bellies skimming rivers, floe
in a flyway, cloud upon

a cloud. We’re given senses —
I say: breathe into wet earth,

brush willow tongues, embody
the blossom’s pink disbelief.

You could not have augured such
a season. I say let the

throat open to feed the sky
with a sound as round and warm

as yolk. Remember how we
mistook ourselves for frozen

clay? Now I am just beyond
the bend of your wing, as just

beyond my own banks the wing
of another. Astonishing

how wind plays on your hollow
bones, and all the rest is lift.

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