Issue 2 | Winter 2008

Guilt in Spring, A Qasida

Snowmelt, then phoebe, nuthatch, cardinal, yellow finch,
and two deep cuts on bark that claws had etched.

While she sat musing, something hungry watched
like a roving bandit or fairytale witch

brewing the spell her betrayal would catch:
a sleep of a hundred years, a mind without stretch.

When her bones sparked like grindstones, she flinched.
Something dextrous was lifting the latch.

Filed under: Poetry