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by Lindsay Coleman

My mother was a terminator

of small birds over

the blank wheat of Pennsylvania


in the blind going dark

red dark

she was looking


in birds--arrows in the iron

lung of the dawn I was born--


for something beyond 

birds, their whistling tick-

tick chests


air hammered between stars

breath curled over the lip

of the barrel, tiny o


in this blood ranting 

through my body all night 

is an ancient sound:


a whistling, warning one 

bright hollow of another.

About the Author

Lindsay Coleman teaches English at a high school outside Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She is a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop.

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