Two poems by Annette Lapointe

Magpie in the Snow Trees
this first wet fall pulled the branches
down. their snap-back sends snow
and leaves airborne. they hit the pavement
like a killed bird.

in the park, the magpie kits
still struggle with flight. their bones
catch downdrafts. they hit trees
and tumble in a mass of adolescent
in-feathers into the lower branches,
catch a limb and swing
back to the vertical and launch.

it's still a world of leaves
and birds. the snow's a visitation. but
they don't migrate,
magpies. they'll hunt songbirds
through the winter, feast on glass-
killed chickadees and sparrows
who can't see windows
                     and collide.

in this first fall magpies
shake themselves and launch towards
my window. stop and peer inside.
they can see me, where the sparrows
just saw sky.


You crouch in the frost
and fieldstone gathering
all your sight

and wait. Barbed wire
curls down the sand wall
to the ice.

Cold you barely remember
grows like lichen
loving your stillness.

The terns flying north
through this saturation
are sheathed in light

so brilliant
that any single breath
will make them shatter.

Annette Lapointe was raised by hippies in rural Saskatchewan. She has lived in Saskatoon, Quebec City, St John’s, Seoul, Jinju, and Winnipeg. She now lives and teaches in Grande Prairie, Alberta. Her first novel, Stolen, was published in 2006, and her second, Whitetail Shooting Gallery, appeared in 2012.


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2 responses to “Two poems by Annette Lapointe

  1. Pingback: Issue 2 Summer/Fall 2014 | The Waggle Magazine

  2. Pingback: Issue 2 Summer/Fall 2014 | The Waggle Magazine

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