poetry
Dichotomy Megan Jones
I.
II.
There is no in between this season – I’m either jumping three stairs at a time or dragging weary bones, pulling my body along by the guardrail
I skip abnormal psychology only to find an unshelved book on birds – flip to a section on boobies – the facts school skims over
This brutal dichotomy leaves me light driftwood spinning on a precarious axis between the poles chosen before my birth Wondering if there is hope in the waiting
I learn the blue-footed booby marks its nest-site with a ring of guano and once settled on the eggs, will not cross the line – imprisoned by its own shit Broken faith whimpering, each winter brings the question – Will I perch maudlin warming my hates or will I piece myself together, toe the line, cross it, letting my tiny hurts hatch and ride the chill east wind out and away from me P at h o s • w i n t e r 2 0 1 0
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