By Ayla Goktan
Every bird poem sends me
to the same place: the cliff
miles past the petrol station
where my ex and I bought coffee
on our way to Dunmore Head.
Driving parallel to the Atlantic shore,
we saw above the water a bird—
storm petrel or shearwater—
suspended on the wind’s treadmill,
beak aimed at our rental car.
Sid called it a miracle
and pulled over, took a photo
of me looking over the edge
after the bird was gone,
when the mediocre yellow sunset
had worn a thin place
between bands of gray—
a day that, absent my nostalgia,
is hardly worth remarking on at all.
Ayla Goktan studies poetry at Boston University. She has lived on both coasts, in the Midwest, and in Ireland, and her work often explores the meaning of place in our lives. In her free time, she likes to do yoga, eat ice cream, play the flute, and laugh at memes.