In The Updraft

Milkweed pods and sun-brittled leaves

hover in the updraft.

A vee of Canada geese grieve

low over the black-

limbed trees’

even-spaced sleep.

A marsh bird, brief wonder, flits

between rafts of reeds.

And so will we soon drift up

in hushed bits, spread lean

by thin wind to settle

like shadows on the earth.

The geese, sans ritual, curl up

in an oak’s ankles.

Their meat speaks in scents

to the scavenging foxes,

and rain runs their blood

to the mud-sifting fish.

The pods and leaves

carry their own epitaphs

in narrow bones. The wind,

light pressure on the wrist

or heave of wet-thick and light,

cannot help but mean.

As we float and mingle,

we may seem to grow mute,

but our bodies will still whisper

to versions of ourselves

 

Benjamin Brezner received his MFA in Creative Writing from George Mason University, where he received the 2017 Outstanding Graduate Student Award and the Mary Roberts Rinehart Award for Poetry. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Whiskey Island, DistrictLit, The Camel Saloon, and Eunoia Review. He recently moved from Washington, DC to Toronto, ON with his wife and cats. He occasionally blogs at benbrezner.wordpress.com and Tweets @benbrezner.

 

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