Samantha Hunt

She is going out on the tide
a silver topped retreating wave
white hair crashing against the
eroded rock of a face worn bare
she has given up her children
grandmothers now who try to
reel her in on a buoyant promise

She has gathered her berries
mad against the harvest moon
they dragged her in arms flailing
she squawked like a gull as the
black juice seeped through her pockets
until the morphine set in and laid
her flat as a stone on the bed

She awoke with the living and dead
and the yet to come at her side
but heard only the hollow coo of
pigeons on the roof above, strutting
and blowing out their plump chests
calling her to follow with each
frantic beat of their restless wings