by Conor Gearin

If I was a
lavender seed, on
gravel or on good soil.
If I was a gull on kitchen
scraps or a pile of
confiscated weed. If I was
a weasel. Or trout.
Setting matters
as much as the species.
In a brook over
blue-gray stones or
the Cuyahoga River
between flare-ups. I can’t
picture a creature without
a place. Then I think of decisions:
where the possum that is me
will get the next garbage scraps,
where are enemies, how will
I hide. The place. The hedge,
the French drain, the tunnels
in the shrubs’ low boughs. If I
was another kind of life, all I see
is questions of where, and scarcity.
I don’t look at my wings. I don’t
look at my lustrous ursine coat.

Conor Gearin is a writer from St. Louis living in Omaha. He’s the managing producer of BirdNote Daily, a daily radio program and podcast. His work has appeared in The New Territory, Chariton Review, ONE ART, Frozen Sea, Mochila Review, The Oxonian Review, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. He’s on Instagram @conorgearin.