Hours – Kirsten Ogden

Imagine each storm is a lesson about who you might become.
A hundred dried out moths and potato bugs scattered across
a porch.

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.

Drink anyway.
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

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