Aviary Undressed You’ve been beating at my window for days, Lapping up the cobwebs in the corner.
by magnolia wilson
While the dishwater separates my cuticles from their beds I am building you a home, built with sticks and spit And flatware stolen from the neighborhood diner. However ornately constructed, it welcomes no one. But I grow weary of your incessant rapping And cannot continue to weave ribbons through the roof. Mites get in, gnaw at your quills, and you begin To imagine your own extinction. Bladed hands chop the water, disrupting the greasy suds Until they wilt and pop. My fingers become as milky White as the sun-bleached bones of those who came before you. I press my pelvis into the linoleum counter, Allowing these thoughts to pour out And over the sink. Like water’s chill before it scalds, You can’t feel the burn until it’s already scarred you.
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