Katherine Hessler

The city possesses zodiacal light./
I climb along the red edge of day: a cliff with a punch drunk jaw./5:00 am a phoenix fills
the sky over the strip mall lot,/and the crumbs of God’s baking flutter to the eaves,/but a
sparrow with a broken wing hops & drags itself to fall/over the wrong side of the yellow
line./Her chest heaves, her marble eyes reach,/so I want to hold her and reset her
spring,/but smash her instead for an end to one misery./ The snap of bones like the
amberized twigs/of the forsaken forest/beneath this asphalt./Bury her/but only weeds
and cigarette butts./Leave her to be eaten by the bitter iris of the sun./
My morning shuffle to open shop.

Katherine Hessler is a rising Junior studying English and Global Health. In addition to writing she spends her time running for the woman’s cross country team (Go ‘Cats), and working at the Foster-Walker package center. She loves talking poetry, so if you’re interested hit her up at katherinehessler2024@u.northwestern.edu.