haven

on sundays we gave ourselves over

to harvest, to balustrades

of feathered things.

though curtained to shield,

we could not be taught

to shoot geese whose backs

ached of otherworlds.

whose wind-filtered wings

bore us ice to bathe moons.

we bathed in their lakes and shivered,

sloughed off our sunday skins

too long, unnerved

desire, its sibling dread.

left us behind with the haunted.

so we swam as seaborn,

shadowed lakeside till we could fly.

twined round wolfsbane

to gift ourselves new hearts.

already whispers stirred in us,

claimed we stole

a piece of our making.

they told us make shadows last,

stay here, inhabit.

Shannon Cuthbert works in operations and consumer products, but continues to love writing and art on the side. She has found working from home during the pandemic to allow more time for creative projects, and recommends finding virtual or local in-person writer’s groups on Meetup.

Fiction board, Spring 2012 to Spring 2014