by W.F. Lantry

Northeast wind. Smoke from distant domes.
A few stars break their tangled arch of sky.
Dark wings are moving near me, calling out
to others, drifting offshore. They answer back.

Dreaming of early sun and desert wind
I sleep through these harsh days. The night is mine.
Walking the tidal riverbank, rip-rap
settles beneath my feet. Its salt flows in.

She’s somewhere south of here. I know those wings
will settle near her marshes, on their way
to Roanoke or Amazonia.
Dense willows cage Orion in their twigs:

birdsong from cages can’t remake her voice.
These waves reflect a withered crust of moon.
Nights become hers. I speak to shadow. Tides
heap our floating wreckage back to shore.

I can’t follow those voices, pulling south.
Lashed stars pursue the order of their rounds.
I lean back west. Stone burns in leveled cold.
Smoke from distant domes. Northeast wind.

W.F. LANTRY works inside the Beltway, but drives every night to the Northwest Branch of the Anacostia River where his wife sometimes makes him take his five year old to Mass: “Victimae Paschali Laudes” actually happened exactly as described. During the present academic year his poems have been published in 11 separate and unique countries, including Texas, both in print and online. He currently serves as the Director of Academic Technology at The Catholic University of America in Washington, DC.