» Poetry

Two Poems

Sandra Fees

Sharp-shinned

I never know who to root for
but I envy the hawk, a beak
determined to smash a pond’s

iced lid. Talons that secure
the world. Is this what it means
to grasp for what’s beyond

our reach? To pursue our hungers
unabashedly. To marvel at last
night’s dream that’s already

sliding behind the winter moon
but still we cling. The fish
shudder beneath the glassine

surface. Do they know this
is a morning for letting go?
My boots creak. My weight

shifts. The fish sluice water’s
maw. My eyes sting, cold
from waiting. The waiting

is a slow calculation. There are
no formulas for what will be.
We keep going, or we don’t.

On Sundays I used to go

to church, but now I drink
too much coffee and think
of my friend who worships
wonder, who holds each
fledgling ache as loosely
as she can, who forages
each morning for what’s
to come. She adores
the junco that’s pressing
its pale belly of want
to a smoothed branch,
its brows arched to petition
the heart of the tree
for more liminal hours,
just a few more, please.