Katherine Neale
Birdcage As witnesses of grief we become dark of tongue dark of heart. Grey birds inhabit our bodies settling in the most intimate places. The birds squat in our ankles. They flutter in our knees. They peck at our fingers. They fold themselves in the inner ear tucked away from the lighting that strikes the skull like a chisel. The pieces fall from the crowns of our heads. We could not be more mortal. So we house the birds in the sap of our navels in the stems of our throats. And we sing. The earth lifts our skulls— a storm of cirrus and curl. The mountains so stoic so still so quiet are fretting and thrashing within us. This is the witching hour we have been waiting for the witching hour we have been dreading. Arms spread not like wings but daggers. There is fire to be eaten flame by flame. We rise from the bowels of the soil. We are clean.
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