← v16n1, Spring 2017
Poetry · Volume 16, Number 1

Philomela After the Metamorphosis

What I remember most—the stillness

before flight. My body could not

believe it would rise into sky

and escape his torture. Punishing

grass, the frantic minutes I ran

stretched longer than the year

woven in silence. As a child,

I feared birds—their feathers,

stealth from behind, leaving

in a flutter. Their freedom terrified

me most but while escaping, all I

wanted was to become a creature who

lifts without thought—only instinct.

Not merely to sing but to be song.