The Woman is Changing into a White Heron Again​

Issue 18

Needle beak, head feathers aroused, hiding her jogging suit
and sneakers, hat and binoculars, among the rocks. I've seen her
 
before at the estuary, strolling the sand with her dog, who chases
the whimbrels and wigeons. Seen her chatting other walkers
 
in wind and sun. Now she wastes no time, feasts on hawthorn
called mayflower though April has dawned. Wrestles with
 
upside down mallards diving for breakfast. Then, cries from deep
inside reeds and hazy grass the color of fire. She complains,
 
Skeow, to another white heron, takes up thread to mend
a rib. Oh, I yowl, to no one. She has taken the form
 
of one injured. I hunch down among morning glories. This is
her wetlands, her fight. She will spend the day regaining
 
her true self before dark, water's reflection a payment she must make,
a kind of loyalty oath I don't understand. I've knocked against
 
the door of transformation myself, but haven't found a way
inside, clothes stubbornly stuck to my skin, and I wonder
 
if she too was diagnosed with scarring of the lungs
and searched for requital, or found out escaping
 
could be like morning glory flowers
convulsing against their furry green leaves.

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Laurel Benjamin is the author of Written into the Curve of the Sea's Open Throat (Shanti Arts, 2026), and Flowers on a Train (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2025). Publications: Pirene's Fountain, Lily Poetry Review, Gone Lawn, Nixes Mate. She invented a secret language with her brother.

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