swallows
with no cliffs for days,
the feathered fork-tailed
attackers bivouac their
mud-pellet nest
to the bungalow’s
low porchlight.
when the screen door
flings wide, a flurry of
screeches and divebombs
swallow me, trip me up on
bellbottom hems, fell me
like a repentant believer
to stained knees, arms
a poor shield
to bombardiers,
feathers grazing hair
and fear.
i blame them for it all.
for their audacious courtship,
for chores, for the hazy
daze of lonely days, for
childhood, for wings too.
)(
if i knew they were
a gulp of swallows,
would I have
been kind?
if i knew they were
a richness, would i
have stolen
big sister’s
tennis racquet,
the one she
backhanded
ball after ball
after ball against
the shop door?
my small fist grips
the hollow-boned shaft,
part Martina,
all McEnroe.
i swing at
those mamas,
do worse
to the mice
with a hockey
stick.
Leanne Shirtliffe (she/her) is a writer and educator, born and raised in rural Manitoba, now based in Calgary. Her poetry explores farming, feminism and family, and can be read (or is forthcoming) in CV2, FreeFall and Hellebore Press. More: leanneshirtliffe.com or read her overheard haiku on Instagram @leanne_shirtliffe