by Heather Gustine
the ones not paved into dark pockets
or picked apart by moles
unbutton themselves from the earth’s holes
grabbing feather-ends of grass
as their enamel heads nudge and shove
form mud chimneys along the road
they splinter scales of tree bark
veins mapped out on quivering shadows of wings
crisp skin going amber in the low light
their song wheezing through the drain pipes
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Heather Gustine is a recent graduate of Chatham University’s MFA in creative writing program. Her work has appeared in journals such as Permafrost, shadyside review, The Red Clay Review, and Nerve Cowboy. She resides in Pittsburgh, PA. |
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 