Relic

--Jennifer Foerster

An atlas

on the underside of my dream.

My half-shut eyelid—

a black wing.

I dipped sharp quills

in the night’s mouth—

moths swarmed

from my throat.

I pulled a feather blanket

over my skeleton

and woke—

a map of America

flapping in the dark.

Once I dreamt

of inheriting this—

my mother

who still follows crows

through the field,

my sister’s small hand

tucked inside hers,

me on her breast

in a burial quilt.