Poem - Hermit Thrush - Donika Kelly

 

• From Bestiary

 

We never knew winter before this. 

Winter where none of the trees lose 

their needles, 

where ice creaks the limb, 

and the hermit thrush forages for insects 

on the forest floor. Winter where, 

finally, the white girls, after a long, 

long summer of bronze and muscle and shine, 

cover their legs. Winter, where we can finally feel 

beautiful, too. 

We say we. 

I mean I. 

When they cover their legs, 

I can feel beautiful, too.