I used to pour black seed into feeders, used to love that—
to know I’d fed a bird and sent it off—goldfinch, sparrow, nuthatch.
Have the hummingbirds left yet? I let their nectar go cloudy,
every feeder go empty. I offer instead the black husks
of coneflower, the shriveled zinnias. See, in the garden—no mums
dug in, blanketflowers unpinched, lavender still unharvested.
Why do I leave so much undone?
Something broke, some rhythm—no pill can fix it. No spinning
planet pulls me toward its rings. The strings that bound me
to all these chores—they’ve gone slack. I wait for a wind
to make them taut, for warm November air to come in,
to fill me like a kite again.
Alyssa Chase comes from a family of visual artists and has studied painting and printmaking in addition to English and poetry. She recently received her MFA in poetry from Butler University, where she worked closely with poet, memoirist and prosody guru Chris Forhan. She has been published in The Greensboro Review.