Issue One - Therese Broderick
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Summer beach--
a butterfly lays her eggs
in a footprint.
Buckingham Pond/Albany, NY
Reports this morning of bombers
diving from the tree
at the bend of the pond--
a pair of red-winged blackbirds
attacking walkers on the trail.
The female flares in the air
while the male strikes from behind.
The groundskeeper
on the early shift
says there's nothing he can do
(babies in the nest)
maybe just spread the news.
So the woman in sneakers
stops the retired couple
who pass the word
to the guy with a puppy
who passes the word
to the poet
who passes the word
to the ladies in sweats
who decide to flag down
the athlete/
moving too fast, unawares.
Daily laps keep us in shape
but separate
unsafe
not defended even
from the launch of black wings
off spring boughs.
Nesting Instinct
I was eight when my father died.
I ran away to the empty ballpark in the next town
and hid under the bleachers.
In the warm dirt,
I gathered whatever was in reach--
candy wrappers, bottle caps, matchbooks--
piled it around me
and felt somehow comforted.
That's how it's been my whole life.
When threatened, I flee and nest.
This time, I have a suitcase.
I fill compartments one item at a time--
hat, scarf, teabags, vitamins.
Last thing to pack is a paperback
for the plane trip.
My father was once a star hitter.
On summer nights, he recited "Casey at the Bat."
While in the air, between dangers on the ground,
I remember his voice, his home runs.