on one pale leg,
the other tucked
its brown wings,
a piece of bark
fallen onto grass.
It does not fly,
keeps the ground
close to itself
yellow eye alert,
ready to swoop hard,
or feign a broken wing
to lure a thief away;
its nest nearby,
just below the surface.
White Ginger Cat.
A dry leaf scuttles across marble,like a mouse that has been seen,
almost caught. White and ginger cat
returns to our door, ignores the leaf,
eagle over olive groves, and waits
for her time, again. She is plump,
but calls like she is starving.
The walls here have no ears – built of stone
and washed in layers of limestone white.
She can’t get inside of me,
to all the mice in my heart. Even if
sometimes the mice eat too much,
and I need to give some away
to the cat, to restore my heart.
Beside Pigeons.
The sun sinks behind a haze of cloud,
cave-homes become silhouettes
scattered in the desert,
remnants of a volcanic time.
Wind brings snow
and mountains.
A call to prayer
breaks the silence, crackles
from a loudspeaker;
raw like a wail, a simple plea,
to give up everything
and serve.
In the evening
I want to stand on top of a cave
beside pigeons,
grasp the sun where it is,
push it back into the blue,
see day in the east
before it disappears.
Ion Corcos has been published in Axolotl, Bitterzoet, Every Writer, and Ishaan Literary Review. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee. He is currently traveling indefinitely with his partner, Lisa. Ion is also working on his first poetry collection, Like Clouds, and a chapbook inspired by Greece. His website is ioncorcos.wordpress.com.
