BY Natasha Kessler


I have conceived a name for morning,
gathered babies from cribs
and placed them on window sills.

Wrapped in blankets, 
little dark stones.


Because our eyes are eggs, 
every time you blink
you give birth—

beautiful new birds.
When mine die falling,
they die falling.

:: :

The cat keeps
a repository of feathers
near the door.

It wipes feathers
from its mouth
before dipping its hands into me.

:: :: 

a quiet room
a quiet bed

a woman sinks
her children in the river. 


Ghost Ocean


Natasha Kessler is a graduate student in the University of Nebraska’s MFA program and she co-edits the online poetry journal Strange Machine. Her work has appeared in Sugar House Review, RealPoetik, Sixth Finch, and is forthcoming in Blue Mesa Review and Puerto del Sol.