LUISA MURADYAN TANNAHILLCrane
The morning is almost too white I look down and continue peeling plums. My grandfather dead but not quiet. The sound of mourning rising and falling my grandmother calling all the birds in Texas by their Ukrainian names Kran, vorona, shulika, Luisa. Our birdhouse overcrowded with ghosts who push out the hummingbirds and sing such strange music. 208 The Paris-American |
Upcoming poet:
Kaveh Akbar |