I wonder if you think of me
on that eclipsed moon.

Your ship is a copper-winged roc
that will return without you
in February or early March.

I wonder if it’s cold there.

Breathing
thin,
sharp,
apple-crisp
air.

If you packed your coat:
a dark brown
sugar wool.

You mapped out the flight 
after the bathroom flooded.
The pipes’ veins across a leaf,
frozen until bursting.

A migration to escape our winter,
I’d thought while tracing contrails skyward.

There are stinging nettles
inside my lungs.

Our disappointments
becoming scars
ringing haunted hearts.

When I close my eyes,
I see dead lavender in our garden
once crowned purple.

The stems turned to wood,
hardened,
overgrown.

You are a mute swan,
and I’m your mourning dove.

© 2026 Anna Madden