Is peregrine not a bird
the word peregrination suggesting
wings, open spread of marvels,
more colors beyond
our valises, black silver-gray
scuffed by rough handling, greasy, paunchy
filled and fed, packed, stacked,
returned, standing for the next
approximation – but that’s the problem.
Peregrination, I read, is flat-footed
what I, my children, my lovers
do with compulsion, then return unnerved
is two steps backward, stand
in one place aching with failure.
My peregrine is astute, attuned,
known by stillness more than motion.
My phantom bird; how lightly
meaning attaches to words.
Jill Pearlman is a writer and poet based in Providence, RI. She has published in Salamander, Frequency Anthology, Soul-Lit, Crosswinds and others. She writes a blog about ecstasy, art and aesthetics in wartime at jillpearlman.com