A side door unlatched,
she enters, thought crossing the mind. Sings a string of words under
her breath. Forager. In the study, mahogany roll-top desk, a framed
topography of the moon. Mare Marginis. A skein of geese skims
the roof, the honks may mean encouragement, or warning. A series of
gentle tugs. If it comes to it, decamp and let the Thracian have your
shield, Archilochos. Hand reaches into pigeonholes, rifles through
cigar-box drawers: frayed postcards, tangled filigree chain. Pulls open
a tiny square door, a knob for a doll to grasp. Map of the wind road.
Unlockable. Outside you could have heard their wings flap. Folds the
chart under her arm, a delusion to want to unravel it.

Katrinka Moore
published by Otoliths