Zoë Bracken: Three Poems
out of the porcelain shards from
eggs of Canadian geese,
we awoke and learned the art of
walking on weakened legs
bodies are magnetic, as ours pulled in
the lavender lilac royal purples
from just beyond the window
he flew in, between the screen and glass,
perched with curved talons, digging into the mesh.
violet made a space just small enough for us
to follow him in his flight.
she and i exchanged muted promises of love,
drew webs of heather and cerulean on exposed skin
when we couldn’t speak out loud.
i wanted you to be the mama goose and
him, our brother,
to lead us on our winter’s walk
around the lake, over the bridge
to sit under the willow tree
blanketed by the expanse of a cooling sunset.
the island air is salty and burns
at my hips and shins.
i tried to tell you
words clumping at the peak of my
my throat. their mass multiplied, cancerous.
i thought you would see and notice the absence
and tears left on the fabric.
i hated my mother for leaving me
alone when i asked her,
the door was too heavy, stoic and wooden
afraid fingers would get caught as it shut
through the open window
on hudson street
jazz music wafting up.
mugs gripped greedily
by still sleepy fingers
a day to start all days to start
returned at those hours of the night, voices hushed.
hazy iterations of waking up alone
to quiet street corners
they bear no fruit,
back in her fold again
legs dangling out the frame
Zoë Bracken is a senior Sociology major at Vassar College hailing from New York City. If you liked her poems go out and vote in November.