He had worn his loafers today, she noticed,
Had embraced bone, muscle, fiber.
Mist rose from the ridges where
turned inside out. She glared at his slapdash fashion,
She displayed her shaky hand at arm’s length.
of bone pincing tender breast.
Each attempt to coerce conversation
She refused to accept his nonchalant lust.
She endured the pain in her heels,
Before the Bridge Detour
The owl eyes prey,
in my lane. I swerve
because there are no
The river surges.
I look away, then at the owl,
still in the same spot. In danger. Not
flapping its wings,
not once. It doesn’t bother
fooling itself. When
animals have the ability
to fly, should they?
Must they soar?
Either way, the owl
does not move.
Dawn Coutu is a wordsmith. She received her BA from Chester College of New England and is working on her MFA in poetry at New England College. Her articles and poems have appeared in Today, Ad Hoc Monadnock, So Good, Compass Rose, The Henniker Review, The Tower Journal, and Big Lucks.