This must be the house
moving off its blocks. Hundreds of grackles
drop, fold, rise, weave grace
and collision as if every sorrow has slipped
its yellow beak into the wind
and wants me to hear. The breath I just took
falls into the sink
with an orange peel, pinballs against
the wall, threat and ecstasy
splitting the air, turning the afternoon
over in a black wave
of wings. No center, just pivot,
calamity flying in formation
and in this way mistaken for tame,
all its notes played wrong
the start of an arrangement. Even if the sound
is the sound of rain.
Arlene DeMaris
Arlene DeMaris is a freelance writer, poet, gardener and sometimes musician (fiddle, accordion) living in Avon, Connecticut with her husband and elderly cat. Her poems have been published in Naugatuck River Review, Rust & Moth, Tupelo Quarterly, Connecticut River Review, and Door Is A Jar. She won first place in the 2024 Connecticut Poetry Awards with her poem, “Telling the Hive.” In November 2024, Arlene participated in the Tupelo Press 30/30 Project.
