those months I’d palm my belly
& hum down the lane,
would purge their blood
in clumps, brittle ribs and feet
filling the sad menstrual cup,
feathers smearing toilet paper
at night. Each month I assembled
bird scraps in jewelry boxes. Some
I buried in Witherle Woods,
some I burned in beach bonfires,
& others I dried on the deck
to build dream catchers with.
I’d beat all my wings to beckon
back birds each month, poised,
like you, to praise the cells
their triumphant flurry,
but then out would slip a broken beak,
a smear of brown-red feathers.