Suddenly I am shedding objects
like a molting tanager or grackle.
Yesterday my mobile phone
drove home with a friend
after our lunch date. Day before
my fitness tracker departed
for places unknown. One brown
leather glove sits alone in my
bag, its mate abandoned roadside
or downed on some restaurant floor.
Of course I know the difference.
Bird molts are timed to restore,
repair wings, ready them once more
for mating dances, fancy flights,
nest design, pastimes that entrance
others— younger, heady with raw
desire, stamina. I wonder
if leaving things behind is a
last stand. A plea— remember me,
like that bygone Kilroy wall scrawl.
What I really want to do is shed
meaningful words onto a page.
Not scattered riffs or easily erased
random rhymes but a more enduring
chronicle of my migration.
Most birds molt to stay vibrant,
aloft, worthy of awe. Their feathers
do not vanish all at once. Instead,
they drift softly toward ground—
wing shadows, an off-kilter haiku.
//////
This poem was first published in Chronogram June 2024
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Mary K O’Melveny, an award-winning poet and multiple Pushcart Prize nominee, is the author of four poetry collections and a chapbook. Her most recent works are: If You Want To Go To Heaven, Follow A Songbird (on line at jerryjazzmusician.com 2024) and Flight Patterns (Kelsay Books 2023) (nominated for the Eric Hoffer Book Award). Mary’s volume Merging Star Hypotheses was a semi-finalist for The Washington Prize sponsored by The Word Works. She is a member of the Hudson Valley Women’s Writing Group and co-teaches a writing workshop at Lifespring in Saugerties, NY. Visit her website at https://www.marykomelvenypoet.com.
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