The Eagle

I cannot look at the sky the day of your funeral crying down
rain, rivering into your open grave. Although he will never walk

the earth again, the priest intones. Mud shrouds my shoes, no upper
visible. In the church the panes reach for heaven but that glass

cuts far above me. Mouths scatter stories like ashes, fingers tap me,
Did you see? The eagle in the window? Floating while we sang

“On Eagle’s Wings,” rising up to the steeple on cue? My cousin:
Did you? The eagle? He will never walk the earth again.

For years I refused the eagle that was not my own because I
did not see. If a tree falls, and you do not hear the breaking,

does it truly? hints of a toppled trunk, of a feathered miracle
muscle against open eyes and the hard heartwing beat of sorrow.

The logic of grief instructs: absence is a bitter remainder. Holes
blacken with weight, nothingness augments, an ironic gravity

multiplier. Seventeen years later it came to me,
the divine point: the cloud rather than the ray. The things hoped

rather than grasped. The unheard pine cracks, and the fissures run
through me, the golden glides outside the frame, beyond my sight,

and wings thrust in my blood that keeps pumping, pumping forward,
my holed tongue tasting the way home. Perhaps you do not walk

my father, in fields I cannot know. Yet, the tree. The eagle.

Laura Reece Hogan

Laura Reece Hogan is the author of Litany of Flights (Paraclete Press, 2020), winner of the Paraclete Poetry Prize, the chapbook O Garden-Dweller (Finishing Line Press), and the nonfiction book I Live, No Longer I (Wipf & Stock). A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, she is one of ten poets featured in the anthology In a Strange Land (Cascade Books). Her poems have appeared in or are forthcoming in America, The Christian Century, Scientific American, Spiritus, Rust + Moth and other publications.

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from the Funnel Head Sonnets

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To the Child Who Asks