Everything is a Sign

                        Christine Swint

If anapest woodpeckers tap on your roof,
take note. Remember the angel who flitted past
your field of vision? From her tricksy plumage
you believed she was a bird.
Anapest woodpeckers bore your eaves
for larvae, while fat bees whiz through the spaces
between your fingers. Hands become hooded cobras raising
their heads in prayer.
Anapest woodpeckers drill into cedar siding,
announce the bursting of your seeds.
Leaves blow from your crown
like autumn thoughts.
Anapest woodpeckers riddle your shingles,
remind you to reach down your throat,
pull the plug of fear lodged in your chest,
bury it in the landfill
with pestilent body parts long ago discarded.
Have you ever slid on your belly between rocks?
Smelled the turgid soil on your tongue?
Each movement is a dance
with Kali. Look into the espresso eyes
of a bird, see the snake you once were,
or the carpenter bee whose eggs

lie sleeping in your attic.



Christine Swint writes poetry, short stories, and personal essays in metro Atlanta, Georgia, where she lives with her husband, two teenage sons, and

her dog Duffy. Her poems and stories have recently appeared in Mirrors, Long Story Short, Mamaphonic, qarrtsiluniMannequin Envy, and Asphalt Sky. With poet Jo Hemmant, she co-edits a new poetry journal, Ouroboros Review. She studied English and Spanish at the University of Georgia, and Spanish literature at Middlebury College in Spain, where she completed her M.A.