Loading icon

Emigrant

Poetry & Prose | April 23, 2012
by Michael Rogove

 

I feel like my mother’s gold-blooded boy,
conscience buoyed by emigrant’s visions
of slow wooden spoons in mulled wine.

The heart keeps close secrets,
sealed and posted.
First class airmail.

Love
a plane’s paper package
lifted on Lake Michigan, handled by southerly wind.