raptor

yes, these are feathers

on the grass:

scattered evidence,

sad pillow fight.

son, this is hunger,

not violence —

likely a young female,

or a new mother.

nebula

inside most things

there is a beginning:

against brighter matter

a nebula displays a dark silhouette,

but inside that darkness

is where

most beginnings also thrive.

here 

is a rose,

a poem,

a star.

here is a person

birthed by another

(first-time mother rushed into 

the operating room, under bright lights).

November,

not a single cloud that day,

and yet it rained.

coordinates

son, I know where you are,

I see you.

I see the birds

and where our garden is, 

but I don’t know where I am.

late at night,

a canopy of stars and planets, even:

it takes a human mind

to name and organise (presumed) infinity.

hush now, do not fret —

many riddles can be soothed 

with a lullaby.

cotton soldiers

on their cots

clenched fists mimic fallen leaves

open-armed unwillingly

side-by-side with a lifeless

soft toy

who’d have thought

that quilted blankets on a small

mattress could become

a battlefield

Luciana Francis