Poetry by Fredric Koeppel
I’m pretending that finding an owl’s feather
brings good fortune. When I dip the pointed end
into the inkwell of the moon’s dark side,
I’ll write the shrieks of fieldmice and the dumb
terror of the velvet-gloved mole. As for me,
I’m sewing the feather to one of my shoulder-
blades, so, like the village idiot, I’ll half-stumble,
half-fly through the rest of my life, looking
for another feather until my luck runs out.
Fredric Koeppel is a writer and editor living in Memphis. He has had stories, poems and novel excerpts published in a variety of print and online journals. He and his wife, who has a real job, rescue and foster dogs, maintaining a pack of nine.
