BY BRITNY CORDERA
Revelations
Beside your distance, the sound of rainbow
trout stilled in a river warmer
than the bag & tent we are sleeping in,
the current like birdsong we’ll never
put a name to that might begin to ascribe
a secret note for the end of this world
& how it will happen: a continent on fire
begets the floods begets the drought
begets the tornadoes begets the locusts
begets a branding iron burning our lungs,
these titans. Want to say something:
great horned owls duetting
to each other from one stolen nest
to another, the snore of the tent
dwellers next door, & what of yours;
a deep breathing that skips over
saliva, like the flat-stone rocks
we tossed in that tepid current
to watch jounce across the water’s surface
& the remainders of autumn––
white oak smolders gold in the fire
we could have waited a little longer to burn out.
Sagittarius Season
Since the Earth is having fever dreams this year
before her long sleep, the pin oak leaves
heavy with gold have not fallen yet
and the falcon’s scream reverberates
to cleanse the Earth’s body before burial.
Here in a small town called Huntington,
the first sight of autumn is never lost
to the hunters eager to wear their camouflage
of summer’s crisp detritus. The towering pale
men are never hunted in this shrinking town
where red-tailed hawks hook themselves
to crackling electric poles. One of the men
stops at a gas station before going into the forest, finds
exotic game to mess around with; a woman with antlers,
a nest of black-widows trailing from her hair,
northern copperheads springing from the crown of her head
and their ratty remains, hollow bones for tight coils,
a true daughter of Horned Serpent and Cernunnos,
who just walked into a Circle K to buy hiking snacks.
The dark woman who is only seen in the shadow
of fall is spotted; a staredown with the hunter
has her paralyzed in line as he stands behind her.
He ushers her towards the line to go first
looking but barely touching the ruin on her head
with his breath. She thinks he’s going to say
wow, amazing hair to which she’ll reply in stutter
thanks, I grew it myself, but this time it doesn’t happen.
Cordera is a two-year Pushcart Prize-nominated poet. She is a proud Black writer and Louisiana Creole poet, descending from African, Indigenous, and French/Spanish ancestors. Her poetry can be found or is forthcoming in Rhino, Xavier Review, and Auburn Avenue. Currently, Cordera is an MFA candidate at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale and poetry editor for The New Southern Fugitives.