Because I couldn’t bear
to let you go, I transformed
you into a small bird. I shouldn’t
have done it, but I caged
you in my right hip.
You built a nest in the dry
and brittle bramble of bone
and fascia. Sometimes,
in certain yoga poses, I can
feel you flutter against
the wrought iron of my widest
point. Sometimes, when I run,
I hear the faint acoustics
of your song beating
into my blood, and I slow
a bit so that you will rest
once more. Remain with me
to support this weight,
this internal rotation,
another season without
enough numbing snow.
RAY BALL grew up in a house full of snakes. She is a history professor, Pushcart-nominated poet, and editor at Alaska Women Speak. Her chapbook Tithe of Salt was just published by Louisiana Literature Press. Ray’s work has also recently appeared in Ellipsis Zine, Moria, and UCity Review.
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The Cabinet of Heed 