Knives Whistle
By Sherwin Bitsui
Cut from a mail bag
without a return address,
this land whispers its name
from a waterfall’s hairline,
pressed flat under bent knee.
Lifting your head
to look past coming night—
knives whistle.
You scribble an address
to a place where weeds
door the passage back.
Stone in throat,
your hand reaches
to clutch a leaf,
as you turn
toward the rising moon—
dove-winged
Copyright © by the owner.
