Poetry

In the cottage

Kathleen Winter

a thrush is caught beneath the glass ceiling—
must be a she because of the irony, plus
her coloring is nothing fancy. The racket
woke me at 5:20, I thought a horse
shaking its mane but this was feathers
in a fury. I opened both doors,
the rest of the windows, climbed back
to my loft to hope she’ll fly in time
for a calm coffee. Her cry is the squeak
of a fire alarm’s expired batteries
except irregular, alive with pique and worry.
Cill Rialaig is Gaelic: Church of the Regulars.
This regular didn’t follow the rule
but rather left her church, the sky,
soon to regret it. So do I.

Kathleen Winter is the author of Nostalgia for the Criminal Past, which won the 2013 Texas Institute of Letters first book award. The collection I will not kick my friends won the 2017 Elixir Poetry Prize.
Originally published:
November 1, 2017

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