After the Shouting


by Andrew Hachey

I came to the schoolyard and began

to label every flying thing I found. 

Red wing. Sparrow. 


From under your nest

I pulled the fallen shell 

out from a blackthorn 


my fist held tight, knot of root. 

Lifted my hand that became 

a bloody Saint Sebastian, 


arrow-pierced, cupping the cracked thing. 

Two empty sockets. Gapping beak.

Five red tributaries turned 


to a river at my wrist. 

Mother Bird, how go the wars? 

Can I offer the rest 


of my body? 

To find the probability 

of this trajectory. 


Use centrifugal force 

to combat unknowing.

Mother Bird, were we wailing 


or laughing? Your friends 

descended from their branches. 

Marched solemn around our fallen. 


Brought clippings of grass, 

tulip petals to lay 

in the circle. We sat and together


named other birds. 

Familiars. Scratched the blue half-shell 

like a lamp until birth dust  


appeared as a chalk on my fingers. 

Agreed we did not ask for this.

Blew away the hollow bones

through falling leaves.

Andrew Hachey is a poet and performer originally from Toronto. His work has appeared in Quiet Lunch, Occulum, Memoir Mixtapes, Atlantis: A Creative Magazine; is forthcoming in Fjords Review; and has been a finalist for both the NCSU and Split Lip Magazine poetry competitions. He is a founding member of the international performance collective, 404 Strand, and a graduate of The National Theatre School of Canada in Montreal. He is an MFA candidate at North Carolina State University in Raleigh, where he lives with his son, Abbott. Find him on twitter @InvisibleAtom.


  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Facebook

© 2020 by semicolon literary journal, all rights reserved

All written and visual work is the 

intellectual property of the attributed