Autumn Sky Poetry . . . Number 22 . . .


     by Whitney Egstad

Maternal wind parts your mouth

and sings me still, an exhalation

of nightlight anthems,

the strange safety on the eaves

of your quiet breath,

accented with audible stains

of bourbon or gin,

the cheaper of the two. Cradled,

my head in your seasoned palms

like you caught me

on the way down somewhere

you were already going alone.

But I never have the nerve to pry

your fingers from my nape,

call you something gritty

from the back of my liver, carve the damage

in your ear. I just lie here, warm

like a young wound cowering 

under a thin shield of gauze.


Whitney Egstad lives in Tampa, Florida with her husband and daughter. Her work has appeared in The West Florida Literary Federation's online journal, The Spill, and is forthcoming in Moonshot Magazine. She received her BA in Creative Writing at the University of South Florida and begins graduate school in the fall.


© 2011 Whitney Egstad