In Hiding
Mercedes Lawry
In the hollow
of the half-dark
swallow of moon
with the stink
of leaf mold,
glisten of snail.
Crouched
like a spent iris
between weeping trees,
I look out
on wild filigree,
listening for
sounds beyond
river-rush
and nighthawks,
risking small breaths
a moth wing
from silence.
Issue 9, 2017, pg. 74