by Kate Sorbara
Over the rim of the great lake a splash
of orange light. Cued, the geese
honk and flap, rise,
a whip that winds away into the mist.
In the dark I drove disgruntled
through lines of morning traffic
to sit beside you and watch
the gulls and rowers set out.
At our back, sirens of the noisy city
howl out their enticing sadness.
Harpies of hopelessness, there is only darkness,
desire and misery they wail.
It is your birthday. You are haloed
in orange light and we are drunk on
tin cups full of black coffee and
the clean breath of air over water.
— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 1