Imagine each storm is a lesson about who you might become.
A hundred dried out moths and potato bugs scattered across
It’s that day when birds that fell from nests
seek windows to throw themselves against, their bodies
thunking the panes.
Walk barefoot over each crispy hull –
over each hot, wooded plank. Your feet burn.
The whole house swells and groans.
Something is trying to reach you. A voice
like how birds sleep as they migrate across oceans
so sure of their destination.
There are bills to be paid – the drycleaning to pick up.
Each car in the distance is a life you’ll never know, faces
framed in reflected sun, grass bundles of gnats dispersing.
This is a kind of lovemaking –
clothes on the line still damp. A gnat floats in tea,
its wings generating locomotion to nowhere.
What of this morning can be recorded?
It is August and the heat lightening
brightens your skyline in a warning.
Kirsten Ogden grew up in Honolulu, Hawaii and currently lives in Los Angeles. A multigenre writer, Ogden’s poems and essays have been published in Brevity, Anderbo, Windhover, and Kenyon Review Online. She has work forthcoming in Fourth River. Her website is kirstenogden.com