The Children

Jar of feathers becoming,
finally, another map:
cloistered homage to a decade of geese
haunting the grid of our
steadfastness.
Un-find the coveted

ibis; kiss the scarlet of the robin's
blurred departure.
In the end, we were landmark,
compass, same as the lingered-over
pond, the marsh
where cattails remained when all else
left. Ragged in salt,
cloud-headed.

Paula Bohince's poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Nation, and Poetry. She has received fellowships from the National Endowment for...