Amy MacLennan   © 2011 All Rights Reserved

Some Invisible


A week or so of martins splicing
horsehair, mud-loaded mouths
ground to floodlight,

until the rim bends
to last yearís parenthetical arc; then speckled eggs
the size of a manís thumbprint.

The young, newly blued, gray
down still soft-falling from their wings,
gauge the strawed rim, take flight

like some invisible offered hand, one
then another, and another in a remnant wheel
of moons from the night we measured

the telescopeís glass eye against the summered dark,
a hillís sky-stifled swell, the strain of sight
in its nightwork. Then the fling of lights,

the tumbled fronts of stars, Saturnís exacting orbit,
each ringís precise embrace as the planet balanced
on one unseen leg.

Tonight, the same starlight dies endlessly
toward us; each horsehair hangs silver-dipped,
as if in preservation.

Come morning, the birds will swerve from
their innate parabolic orbits, the controlled burn
of their nature a kind of felt knowledge,

this hand we take when offered,
this instinctive cry that says return, return.

 

 

Leslie Adams
Copyright © 2011  

Leslie Adamsí poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Quarterly West, Cimarron Review, Adirondack Review, and New South and been anthologized in Southern Poetry Anthology Volume II: Mississippi. She holds an MA in English from Mississippi State University and is currently an MFA Poetry Candidate at Southern Illinois University Carbondale.


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