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or what we might call providential or a love that keeps its faithful toll— the clock of the entire universe. My sister opens the book I send her in the second sonnet. Her heart freezes at the introduction. Go slow, I text her, my sister, my sister. So much can change in an afternoon. Oh, in a split second there’s one slice of light, and the body opens the mind to the unthinkable. 3 A swan is shot by a man with a rifle that grows from his hand like a ray of light. A pigeon totters on a broken leg toward five lanes of oncoming traffic. A baby sparrow falls into my lap and dies on the Upper Westside. I place a robin in a box and race it to the wildlife center in Albuquerque. Thousands of redwinged blackbirds fall lifeless from the Chicagoland sky. This is the third sonnet. (Not the last.) A barn swallow swoops low and peaceful over Highway 18 in Pine Ridge, SD. I find it dead in the grill of my car. 106 | PHOEBE 48.1

Profile for phoebe

48.1 - Winter 2019  

Fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, and art selected for phoebe's Winter 2019 issue.

48.1 - Winter 2019  

Fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, and art selected for phoebe's Winter 2019 issue.

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