Bird Blind

In the husk of autumn, we shed our leaves

at the door, your fingers at the hem

of my shirt, mine at the button

of your jeans. And for just a moment,

this isn’t a public park and your lips are at

my neck and you’re warm against the wind.

I know the orioles and wood ducks

on the charts behind me will never mate,

but I imagine wings unsticking

from the plastic, each feathered body

settling somewhere within the walls.

We’ll keep trying, you tell me, we’ll keep trying.

And for just a moment, this isn’t November

and the birds are real and we brought

more than just our failures to scatter

into their tiny, open mouths.

Taylor Hamann Los

Taylor Hamann Los is an MFA student at Lindenwood University. Her poetry has appeared in Parentheses Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Split Rock Review, among others. She lives with her husband and two cats in Wisconsin. You can find her on Twitter (@taylorhamannlos) and Instagram (taylorhlos_poetry) or at

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