by Kristin LaTour
Her howling split the maps in two
one world lost in a whirl of fur
the other covering the hole she’d dug.
Move on, she told herself.
Her water broke, a flood
uncharted. No matter. She drowned
as the cygnets searched for food
green things soft in their bills.
What feathers, molts:
Draw a new map. Enter flesh.
Not even white stays white.
Kristin LaTour‘s poetry can be found in her full-length collection, What Will Keep Us Alive (Sundress Publications) and journals like Tinderbox, Fifth Wednesday, Adanna, and Massachusetts Review. She teaches comp at Joliet Jr. College for money and feeds her soul at home in Aurora, IL with her writer husband, and two doggos. Her website is kristinlatour.com.
Ovenbird Poetry 