By Adriana Stimola

I saw a sand­piper trace the place the sea

rubs her belly on January sand. Only, this bird,

it was missing a foot, so I stared, hard enough for tears

to come, then looked to see if we were alone,

in case some dream­ing mix of impos­si­ble people

was waving their arms at me. It was gone, not the leg,

just from where what­ev­er you call a bird’s ankle is, and still

you one-two skit­tered that salted seam, like it wasn’t.

And I thought of all the ways I could save you—who

I could call, how you would come into the cup

of my hands and I’d keep you close to the smooth

skittle snaps on my too-yellow-for-January jacket.

Just before I began plan­ning your nest in my nightstand,

you took wing and went without warning or even

a wink. And now I’m a child under finger clouds wagging,

you silly girl, in my deflat­ed balloon of a coat.

ADRIANA STIMOLA uses poetry to make a map—it’s the best way she’s found to orient herself. So she keeps prac­tic­ing it as she tries to get where she’s going. Adriana was awarded an Hon­or­able Mention in the New Mil­len­ni­um Writ­ings 53rd Poetry contest for her poem “If at the Door.” Find her at www.adrianastimola.com.

This poem orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 21. Support local book­sellers and inde­pen­dent pub­lish­ers by order­ing a print copy of the mag­a­zine.

Photo by Anna Storsul