Kristin LaFollette

Bird Wings

You pointed out the bird
wings in the yard,

laying like discarded newspapers
with their corners in the snow,

the grey against white catching
our eyes, an old iron fence

in the background, enough to
keep the dogs in.

Things are probably buried under
the snow—

Buried under the dirt—
Tangles of plant and tree roots

holding history underground,
saturating everything with

water. This house—I don’t know
when it was built, I don’t know

who lived here before us, but
I do know:

We can hear animals in the basement—

Our heads are dry and cracked—

Stones and sticks and rocks and grass the
color of our bodies make up our anatomy—

I can show you the movements.


I brought a book of
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghost stories

I brought a journal with a white
aaaaaacover and a picture of a bicycle

on the

I ordered a hot chocolate because
of my cold hands,

snow and ice on the roads so
most people

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaastayed home

A woman with a viola

A man with a guitar

He sang

aaaaaaaaaaaaaHey Jude

and he sang
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaadon’t make it bad

and I decided not to read as I
aaaaaaaaaawatched the snow fall and smelled the

caramel smells and smelled something
aaaaaalike orange peels

A woman asked about Let it Be
aaaaaaand I thought of imaginary friends and

aaaaaaa bus stop nearby where people
aaaaaaaaaaaaaclimbed on and off,

snow melting on their hot bodies,
aaaaaaathe smell of coffee and aaaaaaaacaramel and orange

aaaalike summer compost in the aaaaaaaahot sun


Kristin LaFollette is a PhD candidate in the Rhetoric & Writing program at Bowling Green State University where she recently completed a graduate certificate in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies. Her poems have been featured in West Trade Review, Poetry Quarterly, and Bridge Eight, among others. She also has had artwork featured in Plath Profiles, Pretty Owl Poetry, and Spry Literary Journal. She lives in northwest Ohio. You can visit her at

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