Fortune
the cellophane fish
curled on her palm
promises luck
but she’s not sure
knows when oarfish rise
to shallow waters
quakes are near
a bad omen
spiny dogfish passed
off for cod, neatly
parcelled in paper
with a smile
tyrian purple, the smell
of clotted blood,
deception
or indifference
black plastic
invisible to the eye
of the optical sorter
even plenitude
five loaves and two fish
full of plastic, all
hoping for miracles
for lucky stars
Vixen
After W. S. Merwin
She nudges her cubs out, nose to head, as alert to threat
as they are ignorant, tumbling around her feet, pushing
her crouched legs straight. They jumble for milk, heat
between teeth as she looks ahead, scans the bush
for tremors, amber eyes bright. She is sturdy, little trace
of light paws running, streak of rust, clearing the fence –
slacker now, heavy with birth but the glowing face
betrays her, she will fly again, out like a flame if she senses
danger, slick into the night. But for now, she is maternal,
nosing them back underground. No trickery here, curling
a nest of dusty cubs, no perfect, hotly packed but gentle
in this dark gathering of blood, bracken and hearts unfurling.
___________
Rachel Bower is the author of Moon Milk (Valley Press, 2017) and Epistolarity and World
Literature (Palgrave Macmillan, 2017). Her poetry and short fiction has been widely
published, including in The London Magazine, The White Review, Magma, Stand
Magazine, New Welsh Reader and English Studies.
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