Sarah Wangler

Her familiar blade of finger on my neck,
mocking birds in flight from deck to branch—

her hair, a nest, warms us in winter
when birds of war leave. We hop on snow,

peck pinecone seeds. My tawny friend
is married but her Navy Corpsman's

at war. I always thought I'd fall for a man
in the military like my mother,

but I chose this woman—piano player's
nimble fingers at my temples, earlobes.

Her kisses know winter grit: salt and sand.
She's a summerer lamed here, —sandpiper

who chases me from her garden nest
at dusk. We don't disturb the eggs.