Poetry: “Ghosts Come,” by Jane Wiseman

In the blackout storm, our wings
shear through ravages of cloud
seen only in flashes. Compassing
our trackway toward you, we wheel
into dirty weather.

We bring you gifts: A feather.
A pebble. We bring you stems
of bracken. We bring a heart.

Above you, we murmur
among ourselves on the rooftree,
the puttering, the paltering
of our nails just audible
beneath thunder, the spouts and gusts
of rain rattling the sashes.

You thought you dreamed us.

When you wake, we come in sunlight,
sheen of morning on our backs.
Our beaks full of birrs and musicks, we bow
to lay our favor at your feet.

We have crossed your threshold.
We have claimed your shelter.

Jane Wiseman is a poet who splits her time between the rural Sandia Mountains of New Mexico and very urban south Minneapolis. Her chapbook The Bee Telephone won the Jonathan Holden Poetry Chapbook Contest for 2024. Her poetry has appeared in Southern Poetry Review, The Main Street Rag, S.W.I.M.M. Everyday, and NonBinary Review, among other journals.