by Nathan Fako

The hawk has to do, I think

with forgiveness.

That’s why it keeps leaving

cold prey like wishes

in the night fountain

of my head,

waking me to the letter I got once

from an unknown uncle,

off the coast of Oman, thinking

of the time I held you

What patterned hand through blood

shapes to curve each “o” the same?

We had no common teacher

yet our letters make a perfect match.

There is so much

in blood I cannot shake.

Dear Uncle,

in Ottawa park tonight

the dark walls of forest are full

with watching eyes,

and if not, all the better.

I want to cut the sky, peel away

and shrug legacy off,

unmake this fading blue the sky still is

when you are a child.

I’m looking for mercy,

not this line of bunnies hopping tip-toed

from the vague green, disappearing

to hidden doors held open in the earth.

It is not tender, and if there is meaning,

I hear it screech down winged

on the raptor’s wild arc.

Nathan Fako (he/they) is a former high school teacher. He's currently an MFA candidate at Bowling Green State University and the Managing Editor for Mid-American Review. His work is published or forthcoming in The Rumpus, West Trade Review, HAD, Moist, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere.