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MacQueen’s Quinterly: Knock-your-socks-off Art and Literature
Issue 11: January 2022
Poem: 169 words
By Melanie Dunbar

My Son, the Meteorite of Him

in those hollowed-out trunks—

great horned owls in and out 
of the days before that, 
hooting in the depths of October. 

Five pieces of bark for kindling, 
the stove and the wood are damp. 
I see heaven in the west, Orion, 

my son, rising over the barn. I am 
a few lost, cautious steps to the road. 
Every day, I check my Why I Feel 

Landscape. A saw-whet owl sits 
on the woodpile; looks in the window. 
Hawks and owls read the landscape 

for nest potential while I mother myself 
and my son. I feel my time with him 
sometimes a musty wood trail, 

sometimes a white band of conscious 
decisions, like indigo as a homeopathic 
remedy for grieving. 

I could trash the sky and not be done yet. 
I can’t possibly get through the nesting, 
over the nesting, 

even when a shooting star falls 
over the barn. It doesn’t spend the night, 
or capture the feeling of this life. 

Melanie Dunbar
Issue 11, January 2022

tends flowers for a living. She writes her best poetry while weeding someone else’s garden. Her poems can be found in Gargoyle, KYSO Flash, Sweet: A Literary Confection, and elsewhere. She lives in Southwest Michigan with her family and their rooster, Mr. Beautiful.

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