Travis Meyer

Travis Meyer is the managing editor at Poor Claudia. He lives in Portland, Oregon.
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“from Airstrip Falconry”

The kids found shed skin of an asp on the patio in Cairo

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thought our house cat nabbed the thing from an oasis nearby

or that it had found its way through

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the silver reeds, squinting men drift by on a felucca

propellar planes piloted by amateurs after Friday prayer

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buzzed dinner and then wrapped my sister in a mosquito net

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swell of our tour wore frequent naps and long novels

like returning to Stockholm the thrill that pushed us home

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and pitched fortune cookies to the kids

red paper chopstick sleeves and white plastic

vanilla and stale

the taste then visiting the cemetary where

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that was the fall we left the blond hills beyond the fjords

and went to live with Uncle in Talgarth

who had a bleach-faced saker falcon named Yr Hynaf

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and swore to us the falcon left for Amman once

to pay homage to his ancestors and stay with

but returned for the lamb cutlets Uncle butchered

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and the pub near Bronllys where the men

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tricking sheep dogs to sprint along the fenceline

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or riding bicycles together on the road to Felindre

being together when we could

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as if our month on the Nile had been before

we came to know our siblings’ names

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I began the dishwasher leftenants hands

stained from stacking raw tinware in the commissary

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We were wiped-out coral shallow for experiments

And fanned diamond atolls for suitable water

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Friendly fire knew when no one had the jetty

that coasters and iron meathooks hung

along the freezer entrance

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Had I know then the captain had a problem with cocaine

He acquired in Vienna

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Soundlessly evening

Dreams that come whispering and then stay

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Laced up and took two kilometers by surprise

Was mounted through the salt marsh and stalled

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Then at ten thousand feet well beyond the rainshadow

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We’d bypass the system if it marbles after the quake

and let down two shoots for hazard

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Quiet in the moth afternoon skies

A nap in the cockpit

The felt seat covers and petrichor system ahead

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Someone that rifled his rucksack to a throw pillow

But left it like the rest

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Notes on his teeth

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An account of a finch flock he described like a shadow

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The effects drinking salt with what whisky

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They wrote their names in pencil

tore along a perforation

Licking his thumb and index finger

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Layed claim and collected what was left from the chest

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