In the morning, feathers
coated the lawn, the picket fence,
the charred remnant of porch.
She gathered them,
pegged them to clotheslines
to crisp in the sun, ordered by size.
The corners of her eyes itched
as she doused them in petrol
and flicked a match onto the pile.
That night she mixed ash into enamel
and climbed tarred telephone poles
to paint birds back onto the wires.
Elosham Vog came of age in the surreal spaces of the American midwest and west coast. He now lives and writes in China. He is currently editing his first verse novel, ‘Volcano’; ‘Volcano’ poems have appeared Lighthouse, The Interpreter’s House, The Istanbul Review, as well as, previously, The Missing Slate.