winterbirds

by Sam Moe

Fire birds. Soon, logs, calls, smooth stones, amber

lights in the shape of onion blooms, when I ask if

you want to sit near me for warmth you laugh. I keep

a series of ticks in my heart. Today I think you loved

me. Tomorrow, who knows. I swallow half of my

words, maybe more, trying to think about a way to

tell you about the forest. How it felt like I sank into

the earth and no one saved me. Why is this the only

thing I want to tell you. We could be talking about

tanagers, what flavor of champagne is best, you could

tell me when you get sick of me, promise me, I’m

begging you, to let me know if you’ll leave. I don’t

want bedsheet ghosts, I don’t want to keep howling

in the fields and eating with the sparrows. Are you 

glad I’m in your life? I’m sorry about the bonfires

and the jealousy.

Sam Moe is the first-place winner of Invisible City’s Blurred Genres contest in 2022, and the 2021 recipient of an Author Fellowship from Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. Her first chapbook, “Heart Weeds,” is out from Alien Buddha Press and her second chapbook, “Grief Birds,” is forthcoming from Bullshit Lit in April 2023. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram as @SamAnneMoe.