Homing Instinct Stephanie Humphries Bundled in coats on a blanket on the grass, knees pulled to chests. You close your eyes when you say something strong as if you cannot watch the words fall out. I imagine the water vapor coming out of your lips, as dragon smoke, puff, puff, puff. Words become clouds, as if you might be a god creating another universe here. In this way you tell me why you hate your marriage. I pull my resting head from your shoulder, gaze at the sky. Out of silence, the tree shakes. Birds soar into another passing group, then pull away. Patterns shrink, expand, each with their own design. Together now, separate then they know when to pull away, to which flock they really belong.
Spring 2020 | 39
