There were no houses around us for days, only a tiny stream with seven ducklings.
The smallest is sure to be eaten by a cat, the second smallest by a dog, and the third smallest taken home by a child with sweaty hands who likes to feel the fuzz of down
until the duckling becomes a duck—ugly and fat and good for eating.
I pulled a wishbone stolen from the mouth of the mother cat feeding her adult kittens.
It is to make a wish, so I give this to you—break it apart.
The shortest gets a wish, the longest gets married first, either way, they say you win.
Heather Frankland holds an M.F.A. and a M.P.H. from New Mexico State University. She lives in Tacoma, WA where she teaches at Pierce College. She has been published in Lingerpost, the New Purlieu Review, ROAR, and Sin Fronteras Press. Heather has a deep rooted passion for literature, advocacy, culture, feminism, and poems of place as well as displacement.