wind-shimmered wheat
the kestrel’s belly
uplit
A solitary walk through the fragrance of all that’s green and golden, and suddenly, I am not alone.
Breathing in, I am my dead-too-young father whom I thought invincible, secretly afraid of thunder, and the sea that took a cousin. Breathing out, I am the song of the blackbird he loved the best.
Breathing in, I am my mother, wound by worry, in her rocking chair to nowhere. Breathing out, I am the light of a wagtail across the river stones, and a memory of being taught how to skip with a rope.
Breathing in, I am my grandfather, bitterly disappointed by the lie my father told. Breathing out, I am the drowsy lap, the delight of pencil on paper.
Breathing in, I am my grandmother, straight and stern as the poker on the hearth. Breathing out, I am the crispness of freshly baked pastries made by cool hands and a warm heart.
Breathing in, I am not just born of love, but of pain and joy, triumph and loss. Breathing out, I am so many hopes, dashed and dared, so many dreams, burnished and broken. All are here, on this rung of the twisted ladder, this one moment on the double helix that unravelled me between a thousand thens and now.
endless sky ...
two kestrels hunt
as one
has served as editor for various journals including Take Five: Best Contemporary Tanka, the Red Moon Anthology, Haibun Today, and Skylark, and as a contributing editor for MacQueen’s Quinterly. In her other life, Claire supports adults with learning disabilities, autism, and complex needs, and has worked through the Covid-19 pandemic.
