jenny lara
LAST ONE TO THE SEA
My mother could whistle a crow down. All summer my hands and collarbones blazed under scraps of heavy tweed and tied-on January sweaters. When flying came it was long days in trees and coming down at dusk. Strange when it takes too long to recognize a thing you know. To tell yours from a wild one, even at close range, just down the field. But he always gave himself away, hopping over to peck and strut, swooping down in a bustle. It has to do with the shape of teeth and tongue; it’s something about the way we are born.
My mother could whistle a crow down. All summer my hands and collarbones blazed under scraps of heavy tweed and tied-on January sweaters. When flying came it was long days in trees and coming down at dusk. Strange when it takes too long to recognize a thing you know. To tell yours from a wild one, even at close range, just down the field. But he always gave himself away, hopping over to peck and strut, swooping down in a bustle. It has to do with the shape of teeth and tongue; it’s something about the way we are born.
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Second Place winner - Eastern Iowa Review Poetry Prize
