by Marilyn Bowering
While he studies the stars outdoors, model airplanes spin
on fine webs in his room. Already he is lifting into the air,
wings on his heels, a small Hermes signaling to the Great Bear.
He reaches the outermost planets, he passes the edges of travel,
and I can no longer steer him homeward.
Still, they say a womb is like a lochan on a hill,
made of rills and rain and tears,
and I can watch him from there when I am water
as I was before
Forthcoming in What is Long Past Occurs in Full Light (MotherTongue Publishing, Summer 2019).
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Marilyn Bowering is a poet and novelist who lives on Vancouver Island.