September 2014


          by Joanne DeSimone Reynolds                                                       



She of the troposphere.

Of ash-tipped cirrus-wings

pinning all that is current.


She of her own sun.

Attendant as any bridesmaid

who fluffs the gown.


Death as much her rapture

as love. The mischief

of her rapture.



Reliquary of her own ivory

caging an egg of myrrh.


Envy her billiard-eye.

Her closed-beak prophesies 



scribbling a clean field.

She, too, of the ancient



lone confinement.

Her talents root prey

more succinctly


even as it mouth-squirms.

Swift of terra firma

she is ambition itself.



The story I read on the website about the red-tailed hawk capturing one of the farm’s chickens, prompted this poem. There are some beautiful, if graphic, photographs of the kill on the website, as well.


Joanne DeSimone Reynolds lives in Scituate, Massachusetts. Her book of poems Comes a Blossom was published by Main Street Rag in 2014.