two poems

by Stefanie Kirby

Grapes with Miscarriage

To set fruit on a vine requires rest
& decomposition.  Later, a body to bear
the cost through its fingers, wet

with rupture  & juice. Auburn light lifts like
flies from the fields, draws the eye
away from  plenty & its slick fractured

lips. There is enough room in this
want  for a bird and her branchless roost,
her nested flesh folded for night.



Lobed wings belie this brutality: the male
dissects the caterpillar in even sips, regular

as unavoidable feast. Body bold as nectar.
My father hits two deer on the way home

& I will remember that one was an accident:
how sinews bind bodies to road
in late light. You claim some things

should be put out of their misery.

How lanes break to punctuate journey,
to dash from the kill in predictable beats.


Stefanie Kirby is a Pushcart nominated poet residing along Colorado’s front range. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Passages North, Portland Review, Rust+Moth, DIALOGIST, Clockhouse, and elsewhere.

Photography by: Jake Weirick