Magpies
AUDREY BRYNN


It is the sound your voice is making 
after dragging your body through dying wheat fields 

with bare hands. Like forced confession. 
Like despair. Because when they take her back like 

lost land, the light becomes wild geese 
caught in the dark fury. You gulp down the water 

thunder has poured at your muddied feet. You kneel— 
like it is the beginning again. Remembering 

how the evening loses her red robes, 
how hands are kissed deep blue, and the maiden says 

yes to the brazen boy who is now man 
not repenting his love. And so heaven tosses her 

silver hairpin up into the night. It spreads out like 
stardust and ox hide. This is the whole milky way 

sitting between you. Every night, you call to your banished love 
from the other side of the river. Night after night, you wait.







AUDREY BRYNN is an aspiring poet with a habit of peeling oranges all wrong. She is a proud oatmeal enthusiast captivated by all sorts of mythology and languages. You can often find her hoarding crosswords and memorising typefaces.
The Adirondack Review
WINTER 2017