harvest she is planting the dead birds in the back garden imagines delicate plumed stems sprout in moist soil. there is a place below where bones reknit, grow flesh become the small buds of unhatched warblers. it is a cosmology made up, a child’s mystery emblazed with wonder. I can hear them singing in the dirt she says. tomorrow we will dig them up paint the faithless sky with feathers tatyana why did you think he could save you poets are not known for kindness bravery risk only words betray themselves for an image a line like sharpened glass you were drowning alone and he was far away writing an ocean composing the sky pretty things don’t know if it’s finished yet this pretty thing I’m working on has ignored me for days disappeared is out prowling the village may return with a live bird in its jaws a small dismembered rodent. . . one can only hope. is it too much to ask for a few stolen lines a stray image pray it doesn’t scavenge too close to the heart of the night grow blind with darkness bring nothing back but hunger
Born (1951) and raised in Ladysmith on Vancouver Island, Ken Cathers has a B.A. from the University of Victoria and a M.A. from York University in Toronto. Has been published in numerous periodicals, anthologies as well as seven books of poetry, most recently Letters From the Old Country with Ekstasis Press. Lives in the country with his family and his trees.