The birds are flying lower than they ever have
The birds are flying lower than they have,
so close. I could see her black eyes widen
and her body twist away from curving
over the windshield, realizing her
mistake. A moment of moments. Like that
time I hit the deer, but her eyes were dead
in the lights before she hit the windshield.
The thud of her body as engine hit
engine, flipped over the hood and I screeched.
Irene was screaming until the airbag
punched out into us, smoked us in plastic
and chemicals. The crack in the glass, blood
dome encased like a toy from the capsule
vending machine. But we survived in space.
G. Hall
G. Hall is a lifelong poet based in Amherst, MA. One of their first poems, “Rabbit named Sin who Danced on a Bin”, was showcased at their 3rd grade poetry slam. They’ve since moved away from devotional poetry and explore different themes in their work such as mortality, mentality, and the queer identity. When not writing they can be found on woodsy walks with their partner and dog.