RYAN NORMAN
— THE MOON IS MY MOTHER
I’m water all the time, since I left you
on the shore to shout against the tiny
wake of the lake’s wet feet. I pushed
against the weight
of water tugging at my shirt
and stared into the cratered face
of the moon, more battered
than me. She pulled my tides,
revealed hidden parts of me unseen.
Her crescent crown illuminated my
downfall.
Her voice called into my body,
shivered me. Shoulder deep,
she grasped my arms and pulled
me back to shore, where I laid,
all water—to confirm the moon
is my mother now.
DELICATE
His hands held a bird,
nesting in palms
creased with lines heavy
in work. Its wet eyes blinked
black glass,
damp with a mournful song.
Its feathers, greased for a day
of flight stopped short
by the broadside of a barn;
they swapped oils, foreigners
exchanging gifts at a chance meeting,
each needing the other
without knowing.
A mended wing
full of breadth,
its bones complex and hollowed
to breathe in flight. His fingers,
blood and marrow, delicate
despite their strength,
raised a bird, red chest beating,
to fly again.
Ryan Norman is a writer from New York living in the Hudson Valley. Inspired by the landscape, he writes what he feels. His work has appeared in From Whispers to Roars, XRAY Literary Magazine, Black Bough Poetry, Storgy Magazine and elsewhere. You can find him on Twitter @RyanMGNorman and an updated list of his publications at Linktree: https://linktr.ee/RyanMGNorman