by Peter Grandbois

The pain in your hip dipping like a swallow over the grass

The ache in your shoulder, a blue heron hiding in the fog

The acid reflux eating at your stomach, a revelation of ravens

A friend lost his brother today—

Only so much loss can be sustained, which is why 

Oranges and reds of an Ohio sunset

Or breath rising gray over a half-frozen river

Look, sometimes a story isn’t simple

The river hasn’t closed yet

The flight of the heron leaves a wound in the air

And the need for healing has nothing to do with sky 

Which is only whispered longing anyway

Sometimes in water dreams we follow the heron’s curving body 

Into the liquid eye of moon

Where maybe it’s only a trick of the light—

What we see, and what we miss

Peter Grandbois is the author of thirteen books, the most recent of which is the Snyder prize-winning, Last Night I Aged a Hundred Years (Ashland Poetry Press 2021). His poems, stories, and essays have appeared in over one hundred journals. His plays have been nominated for several New York Innovative Theatre Awards and have been performed in St. Louis, Columbus, Los Angeles, and New York. He is poetry editor at Boulevard magazine and teaches at Denison University in Ohio. You can find him at www.petergrandbois.com.