Murmurations

by on May 6, 2016

Like winged licorice drops,
hundreds spill
across the pearly winter sky,
swoop simultaneously.
Down-then-up.
Connected by invisible threads,
flesh and sinew dot-to-dot,
shift in concert,
an inverse constellation.
Up-then-down.

To belong. To feel
such strength
in numbers, anise
bitter and sweet
on the tongue.
Or to be that lost
at dispersion,
strings twisted,
freefall imminent,
never – alone – enough.

 


Jennifer Hernandez lives in the Minneapolis area where she teaches middle school, dreams of Mexican beaches and writes for her sanity. Her most recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gingerbread House, Mothers Always Write, and World Haiku Review. She has performed her poetry at a non-profit garage, a bike shop filled with taxidermy and in the kitchen for her children, who are probably her toughest audience.

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