follow us on Facebook

The Linnet's Wings

Blue Walls by Elizabeth Hitchcock

Monday-Friday




I’m the one with the purple pen, proofreading 

judgements for seven judges, 

the kind without robes. 

Really, I’m in Wisconsin, Reno,

emerald cities, or on some rocks 

that they called a beach. 




Struck by unbidden loneliness, 

I wait for you to come home- 

in the empty-making turquoise apartment 

(walls covered with paintings- 

jellyfish, onion, lake). 

I curl up, hungry 

under your duvet, covered, 

eating blueberries.




Weekends




She is the one with the rolling pin, 

we’re just here- sipping acrid coffee 

my dad left in the craft. 

Meandering along the riverbeds 

of glacial silt, selecting stones 

colored by washed up years, pick up the red stone 

it’s a reflection of the aurora borealis, 

I find you naked, covered

in fresh chilled mud.




Wrapped in night by the fire 

with family- my parents collect lost children- 

they’re dazed and dizzy on the porch 

underneath the antlers. I count the number of times

ghosts tread on the kindling.




Mornings meet the mountains, 

peaked in snow. It must be some kind of wonderful

waste waking up, trapped in sheets with you

and your bird tattoos.



The Linnets Wings