Many refugees keep the keys to their home,
hoping to return. This one never will:
more and more storms will seed the clouds with birds
and might even bring her a husband,
but the Atlantic is wider than hope.
She seems happy enough here, watched over
by the god of three o’clock in the morning
and the vast space she shook from under her wings,
with the calming sound of the waves nearby
and a wind-lashed sea in her heart.
Published in the An Aitiuil anthology
S.C. Flynn 