Standing on a stump,
he talked of Peru
and the mountains
that pierce violet clouds.

I am the hawk. Watch me soar.
He spread his arms and spun,
his poncho whirling,
his hair sleek ribbons
in twilight.

I belong there, he said.
I want to go back.
Raising his arms he vanished
to a valley of orchids,
plying rivers and waterfalls
to play reed flutes and dance.

Ready? he asked.
Kneeling in the dry, yellow grass,
he placed a small seed
on my tongue,
starting to sing,
as the sky descended
and headlights glared
on distant streets.

Image credit:Luis Martín Alexander Córdova Japay

Ann Kammerer lives near Chicago, and is a recent transplant from her home state of Michigan. Her short fiction and narrative poetry have appeared in several publications and anthologies, and her collections of narrative poetry include Yesterday's Playlist (Bottlecap Press 2023), Beaut (Kelsay Books 2024) and Friends Once There (Impspired, coming summer 2024). Visit annkammerer.com