by Maya Pindyck

You’ve reclaimed a gods-eye view
from the beam that splits this station’s sky 
in two—and as soon as we spot you,
you take off, swoop left, over Gate I,
past the blue banner that points with white arrows 
to where a person can find a garage, or a bus,
& I want to touch the place your feet just touched—
there, on the water-streaked surface impossible 
to reach, near your seared shadow—oh!
dark flutter, side right, stutters my heart
as you stroll across the floor in those old 
pink socks, wings tucked in their usual part, 
like you’ve lived here forever. To find 
a way out is another bird’s endeavor.

Maya Pindyck is the author of two poetry books, Emoticoncert (Four Way Books, 2016) and Friend Among Stones (New Rivers Press, 2009, winner of the Many Voices Project Award), and the recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship. Her poems have been recently published in Seneca Review, Quarterly West, Barrow Street, and The Los Angeles Review. She lives in Philadelphia where she is an assistant professor and director of Writing at Moore College of Art & Design.

Back to the Issue