AN X IN THE SKY,
POETRY
ISSUE I
2025An X in the sky,
far sky
the close cardinal
and unseen mourning dove
make a tapestry of sound
in gentle/persistent defiance
of the violent unstitching
murmur of cars
even the electric ones hover
and a robin makes no sound
but moves through a stiff air
in the yard, warms themself in
the shade –no breeze, no sound
as still and quiet as motion
earlier having searched through
leaves for a worm
I wonder if they found instead
their companion (not a robin)
but a small unknown bird
–I and they being the only
to witness their death
–took it upon myself to lift her
little body from the porch
through the reach of a grocery mailer
and place her in the only unfrozen
spot in the yard at the base of
a backmost tree beneath
some leaves. It is now day 3
of sun and warmth in March
and I remember a robin looking
towards/noticing the recently
downed tree–I sit near
its protruding roots and wonder
whether it is still alive, wonder
at how worms don’t move in
to devour…learn that worms
are a colonial project…wonder
at the vessels that brought them here,
wonder at the Robins who
remove them with
conviction each morning,
wonder at the big apple,
at the compost of it all…
wonder if humans were more like
trees before worms ate their bodies
–hollow frames withholding even
through death. The slow stepping
man is back again with his arms
crossed…I cannot be the only
one who cares for this tree…
this bird…the worms on the
road when it rains. I assumed
the worms simply loved the rain
and ran above ground to
rejoice…you seem to know
better… “they are
drowning” and I wonder if/whether
something with so many
hearts can really drown
or whether it simply, they,
we simply become water
–we take it on, we take it
in, we move through
and it moves through us…
So yes, the worms are out,
in jubilation
their hearts are full and our
hearts with them
after the “blood worm moon”
nightmares of unspeakable tone
reflect either an awful truth
–or the imprint of a fearful unreality
—a premonition
past, present, or future?
I am waiting for menses, rain,
and you.
Eleanor Brooks
Writer
Issue I, 2025
Eleanor Brooks lives and writes in upstate NY. In addition to poetry, she dabbles in lyric essay, works with stained glass, and has a Bachelor's degree in Literature with a focus in Queer Medieval Studies. Her poetry stems from her continued fascination with/devotion to nature's endless and transient forms. She is currently working on a series of sonnets, a collection of haiku, and a book of visions–2 of which are included in this publication.