The Whiskey Flip
Try Eat, Pray, Love. Try cooking.
Try swallowing your pride
along with the craft cocktail of the season——
some punch bowl bourbon
palatable now that the homophobic pendulum
swing of those who barreled it
——Bulleit——
recanted: come to Jesus moment
for the politely misogynistic
born again Catholic bros in bow ties:
not sales were down in a collective
millennial market.
Fiddlehead
The gods will crush you
for an ill-timed iamb——
the ones that crack open their spine
into soot-coated wings, vultures
seeking morels hiding
under ash, emerald, undead, a holy city
of Dryad’s saddle in the downed birchwood.
This is all the canopy I need——
curled up like a newly unfurled fern
on the forest floor.
At First Sign of Snowdrops
The robins speak first,
chattering all spring,
gossip from the winter:
“How fat she got—how plump!”
red breasted
in the winter snow
“Too many berries,” they chirp.
Too much Midwest
bread and butter.
Sondra Morin lives in Chicago and grew up in rural New England. She holds a B.A. in English from the University of Massachusetts Amherst and is an alumna of the Juniper Summer Writing Institute. Poems and prose have been published in several print and online publications, including The Rumpus, vis a tergo, SIMILAR : PEAKS ::, The Logan Square Literary Review, and Curbside Splendor. She formerly wrote for the City of Chicago’s Publishing Industry Program, is a Chicago Uptown Poetry Slam Champion, and published her first chapbook, Inviting the Expanse, under Radical Snail Press. A favorite film of revenge is Funny Games directed by Michael Haneke——both versions.
