by Shevaun Brannigan The apex goose, its unswollen liver— the brush at the side of the road, I have seen the fallen birds in the flames of its blades. If a fatness, a feathering, the proudest breast, can be undone with little more than a finger bending and unbending, and if, similarly, she can be undone by the minutia of her hands not knowing what to type, or “Cincinnati” slurred, this is a worry. But when driving, the orange sky lacerated to distraction by birch trees, some inner compass guides her travel, leads her North. Tell me that if I were to suddenly misfire, I would remain magnetic. Tell me I would still know the way to you. ________________________________ Shevaun Brannigan has been published in Swivel: the Nexus of Women and Wit; Calyx; Spoon River Poetry Review; Pebble Lake Review; and Rattle, for which she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She is currently a student in Bennington College’s MFA program, and graduate of the Jimenez-Porter Writers’ House at the University of Maryland.