by Maya Klauber
From the corner of my eye, on a day when pain
made life feel too long, it seemed someone had flung
a batch of clean, white envelopes from the fire escape above.
It looked like they’d scattered into the wind, but the reality
made me smile: a small cloud of pigeons—all white—
swooping down between buildings; drawing people
to their windows; calling on us to keep watch for wonder.
Image by Ellie Burgin via Pexels
Maya Klauber is a poet and visual artist living in New York City. Since childhood she has coped with chronic health issues, an often isolating experience that has informed and deepened her writing. Through her poetry, Maya aims to offer readers the same light that others have given her in times of need. Her poems are most recently published and/or forthcoming in Bellevue Literary Review, Intima: A Journal of Narrative Medicine, Sky Island Journal, The Awakenings Review, and tiny wren lit, among others.
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