Beak

Before we knew herons,
we knew their sleep–
white, craned, blue pitch of reeds
against the earth.
Mud.
Pebbles emptying from their throats
like tin.
Hail that shook the water.
A group
is called a siege. They wait,
or drag each other to the banks.
One with my name.
One with his.

Author of the article

Meggie Royer (she/her) is a Midwestern writer and the founder and editor-in-chief of Persephone’s Daughters, a journal for abuse survivors. She has been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize and has been published in journals such as The Minnesota Review, The Rumpus, San Antonio Review, and more. She thinks there is nothing better in this world than a finished poem. Her work can be found at meggieroyer.com.