On Stealing My Neighbor’s Calico

I want to steal my neighbor’s cat. She follows me home each day, each footfall snapping up like a child’s rubber ball across the pavement. She has no collar, no small bell. Her left eye is green and cloudy like my eastern marshes. I wonder what might happen if I closed the door behind us,…

Trapped Bird inside Hospital Corridor

A bird trapped in a house, they say, is good luck. I think of telling you this when we find three in the empty fireplace. But I say nothing. In the hospital the children are all asleep, curtains drawn. It’s as if the sun never came out today; too many clouds. I wait it out….

Upon Finding Out I Miscarried Our Child while Flying over Lake Michigan

*From Grist, 2016 Floating Bridge Chapbook Award winner. Originally published in The Sierra Nevada Review. Kate Peterson earned her MFA from Eastern Washington University, where she is now teaching composition as an adjunct. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming from Sugar House Review, Packingtown Review, Aethlon, Glassworks, and The Sierra Nevada Review, among others. Kate is…