by Lisa Zerkle
Once I watched a snake encircle the post of a picnic shelter, spiraling towards a wren’s nest tucked under the eave, not dissuaded by the shrieking pair of swooping decoys or their frenetic flailing as it breached their haven atop the post, plenty of time to consider how it would allow each egg into its mouth, how each would shatter into tasty slurry of slime and shell, those brood-warm ovals cradled in beak-woven straw, how—no rush-- it would swallow all but only one by one. Lisa Zerkle’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Quartet, Heavy Feather Review, The Collagist, Nimrod, storySouth, among others. She was the creator and curator of 4X4CLT, a public art and poetry series for Charlotte Lit. In January 2023, she was awarded an MFA in Poetry from Warren Wilson College. She lives with her husband and a 100 pound slobbery bulldog named Ozzie. Follow her on Instagram @hag_lore
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May 2024
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