Steve Brisendine


wild strawberries
among clover;

birds come, land,
cock heads and feed

but this is one more
day without bees

(I dreaded them
as a child, past all

points of pain – now
I sit, wait, brood over

hearing only feathered
wings around me)

time again
Three years
since your last breath,
and still I hear echoes 
of the word gone, of the silence

a suddenness
of full moon

from behind high

Selene comes 
fashionably and
late tonight,

her silver set
aside for gold

(and I am too
beguiled to play
Endymion, feign
sleep, draw her
down to me)

Steve Brisendine is a writer, poet, occasional artist and recovering journalist living and working in Mission, KS. He is the author of two collections from Spartan Press: The Words We Do Not Have (2021, nominated for the 2022 Thorpe Menn Literary Excellence Award) and Salt Holds No Secret But This (2022). He was a finalist for the 2021 Derick Burleson Poetry Prize. His work has appeared in Flint Hills Review, Aji, Modern Haiku, As It Ought To Be and other journals and anthologies.

Flights, Issue Six, September 2022