by Fiona Rose
I’m not supposed to be out of the house tonight,
alone in an evening thick enough to hold.
I can’t see them, but in dried-grass beds
the herds and flocks huddle together.
In the murk of a flooded pasture, the dandelions turn
to pulp beneath my feet.
Through the smell of feral musk
comes a whine, beasts in isolation.
A collection of feathers and hooves,
a familiar pulsing through confused limbs.
Lateral-eyed, yet sees nothing in either direction.
Doesn’t ponder what it would say if it could speak.
It’s early morning now, the overlapping bodies
don’t dream when it’s this dark, don’t dream at all.
About the author:
Fiona Rose is a writer, musician, and artist residing in Portland, Oregon. A poet and editor, her work has been featured in Poets Choice, The Closed Eye Open, and Cathexis Northwest Press, and served as an Editor for The Pointed Circle.