Wendy Wisner
Devoured
This morning, a black crow on a fence,
a piece of flesh dangling from its beak.
In the street beside it, roadkill, a body
torn open. I couldn’t look long enough
to identify the animal. How do we decide
who gets to eat, who gets to be eaten?
Nights like these, I turn from you,
your skin against my skin makes me flinch.
It’s nothing you did, nothing you didn’t do.
I know I’m still the one you want
to consume. After I left the crow,
bright April morning thrust itself at me.
Lawnmowers roared. Redbud petals
fell onto my hair. I couldn’t touch
any of it, but part of me wanted to lie
in the street and be devoured.
This morning, a black crow on a fence,
a piece of flesh dangling from its beak.
In the street beside it, roadkill, a body
torn open. I couldn’t look long enough
to identify the animal. How do we decide
who gets to eat, who gets to be eaten?
Nights like these, I turn from you,
your skin against my skin makes me flinch.
It’s nothing you did, nothing you didn’t do.
I know I’m still the one you want
to consume. After I left the crow,
bright April morning thrust itself at me.
Lawnmowers roared. Redbud petals
fell onto my hair. I couldn’t touch
any of it, but part of me wanted to lie
in the street and be devoured.
Ordinary Light
All afternoon my reading glasses have sat on my desk,
sunlight spilling
through the lenses. Now, evening light slices
through the blinds. My husband hums as he washes dishes,
forks clinking
against glasses. It astonishes me how still
the world is if you sit and take it in. Yet, two days ago,
a Black child
got shot in the head after ringing a doorbell.
Two days before that, a young woman
was shot to death
as she pulled into a stranger’s driveway.
There was nothing still about any of that.
Today is Yom Hashoah.
I’m looking at old family photos. In one, my grandmother
is pictured with her aunts, uncles, cousins.
It’s 1936;
in just a few years, all of them, except my grandmother,
will be gone. Look at them, huddled in a dining room,
a few empty glasses
on the table, a small girl’s hands
clasped, as if in prayer. And there it is again:
an ordinary evening,
ordinary window, ordinary light streaming through.
All afternoon my reading glasses have sat on my desk,
sunlight spilling
through the lenses. Now, evening light slices
through the blinds. My husband hums as he washes dishes,
forks clinking
against glasses. It astonishes me how still
the world is if you sit and take it in. Yet, two days ago,
a Black child
got shot in the head after ringing a doorbell.
Two days before that, a young woman
was shot to death
as she pulled into a stranger’s driveway.
There was nothing still about any of that.
Today is Yom Hashoah.
I’m looking at old family photos. In one, my grandmother
is pictured with her aunts, uncles, cousins.
It’s 1936;
in just a few years, all of them, except my grandmother,
will be gone. Look at them, huddled in a dining room,
a few empty glasses
on the table, a small girl’s hands
clasped, as if in prayer. And there it is again:
an ordinary evening,
ordinary window, ordinary light streaming through.
--
Wendy Wisner’s third collection of poems, The New Life, was published by Cornerstone Press/University of Wisconsin Stevens-Point in 2024. She is also the author of two previous books of poems, Epicenter and Morph and Bloom. Wendy’s essays and poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Spoon River Review, The Washington Post, Lilith Magazine, and elsewhere.
Wendy Wisner’s third collection of poems, The New Life, was published by Cornerstone Press/University of Wisconsin Stevens-Point in 2024. She is also the author of two previous books of poems, Epicenter and Morph and Bloom. Wendy’s essays and poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Spoon River Review, The Washington Post, Lilith Magazine, and elsewhere.