“To What Would Be Winged” and Other Works by S. C. Johnson

Stacey C. Johnson writes and teaches in San Diego County. She is a graduate of the MFA program at San Diego State University and creator of The Unknowing Project. Her work appears in Oyster River Pages, Pacific Review, and Fiction International, as well as various other publications. Her poetry chapbook Flight Songs is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press (February 2024). You can find her at staceycjohnson.com.

to what would be winged––

Stone sky, stop.
No more angels.

Grains of sand listen:

which of these every
has ears ?

Keep my watch Who
remains and what
crunches underfoot ?

––No poet
do not make of me
a metaphor

Put down your pen
and help me look
for what I know was
once
under this wing
with the spare to late morning
blue too blue too much––

mourning We were supposed
even when they supposed beings
to be gone by now
––to practice today

scales of light
choreography of chroma
these branches to buttress
a round of new nest

Cold enough now
to see what I call
here it is again
this cry

––the babies

sounding after

these folded cat paws
beside me the careful
soft of fur and the babies
and the sound of no sound
when questions about next
are done dawning

what seed is this
what bird
what howls?

morning sky
spotting details
of the last blast
photo of plush toy
bright against rubble
what are you?

now

Afternet

By nightfall I want you
to float some still-unsinged drip
of yourself still wet familiar
to what begins
in this living earth
between us from the land
of dead

where it is
not total fog
only some of the edge
you wanted––
edging me on

how we looked:
to remember
how it only made us

gone: crayon-blue sky
bicycle spoke arms
promised reach of yellow sun
to catch us in sheep clouds

sheet of rain
replacing fat drops
distended snow globes

reflecting like faces we knew
we set placemats for love
without return

when all you had to do was hold
on
there is a sound
from the roof

it is birds Baby––
they fall.

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