issue 6
// poetry
Not a poem about birds
by Elizabeth Joy Levinson
Chicago, 10/8/25
The shadow of the bus is underneath me,
I abandoned the thrush I passed on my way,
window stunned and naive enough,
I could have cupped its breast in my hands,
cradled it until it could stand, until it could fly.
The machine in me has been so angry.
The sound of helicopters keeps me moving.
I'm watching the day arrive, the moon is still out,
but dawn breaks on the other side of the sky.
This morning, whatever the world once was,
it is not anymore.
Perhaps this has never not been true.
Sometimes a storm whips the world clean.
But everything looks exactly the same today.
Likely some feral cat will find the thrush.
Only after we see none will we ask,
where have all the birds gone?
about the author // Elizabeth Joy Levinson
| Elizabeth Joy Levinson is a biology teacher in Chicago. Her work has been published in Whale Road Review, SWWIM, One Art, The Shore, Anti-Heroin Chic, and others. She is the author of a full-length collection, Uncomfortable Ecologies, available from Unsolicited Press, as well as three chapbooks. |
Instagram: @ejoylevinson
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