Crane Maiden
For a while two futures ran concurrently.
Mouth full of corn ear to the sky
the stretchy blue sheet to remind her body
and when the door wouldn’t latch
I’d lean my body away pull sideways
the red crown just a patch of raw skin
featherless from between her feathers
she would tug or the skin near her cuticle
or how she’d turn her foot
lean all her weight when she fell she’d laugh
a thin looping sound one
day she made me be the child
pushed my arms through
the straps of her tiny sequined backpack
said go knock on the door tell them
they’re your new family
Megan Snyder-Camp is the author of three books of poetry, including Wintering (Tupelo, 2016) and The Gunnywolf (Bear Star, 2016). Megan’s work has also appeared in Ecotone, FIELD, The Southern Review, The Sewanee Review, and elsewhere.