Blue & green ribbons line
every block south of Uptown,
the whole city a memorial.
Another batch of grief no one
is quite sure what to do with,
so we knot love with our hands
onto street poles, tall oaks in old
neighborhoods where those kids
should’ve walked home.
When a magpie dies, the others
gather twigs & leaves to lay
by the body. Scientists consider
this complex behavior & conclude:
we are all searching for ways
to make this cruel world
beautiful. To make the mess
of feathers in the grass
a little less ugly. Every morning,
I wake up & pour myself
a cup of tea, letting the leaves
seep into the water.
Traffic whirs outside
my window. I clutch the mug
with two palms, hold warmth
to my chest as the world
goes on howling.
–
Sarah Horner is a writer from Minneapolis, Minnesota. Her poetry is published in places such as Redivider, Palette Poetry, The Shore, and Door Is A Jar. In her work, she acknowledges the complexities of desire, queer femininity, and our existence as beings with the intrinsic need to eat, play, touch, explore, and form companionships. She is a recipient of the 2024 Walter Nathan Prize for Undergraduate Creative Writers.