before you cracked her,
everything was imaginary.

among sisters, she was a dozen
strong. one of a dozen, cunning
grenades, cage-free
and cagey,
painted in porcelain

you could crush her,
and who knows what might have spilled out.

she was the stuff of bonemeal
if bones masqueraded
as white sidewalk chalk,
unwrapped, unused,
laying claim to
the line never drawn.

so then you cracked her,
and everything that was concealed
emptied out at once.

among shrapnel, she was
a plaster cast, hugging
in desperation to the negative space:
a non-portrait of
unfertilized yolk and runny
an unlikeness.

you thought she would be
you imagined your fingers the fuse,
and that she would erupt

but she was the stuff of bonemeal,
and she collapsed quietly.
she took in with her the
weight of keratin and
vacuuming air and

and she showed you,
once you’d exhausted
her ammunition,
that she was all

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

a crooked wing

i ascend with a crooked wing
that dangles against
my back

its feathers limp
and crushed
with bonemeal

its tendons snapped
and sticking
to my shoulder blades

my other wing is dipped in blood
but beats the air
into mere ripples

as i surge with
copper between my teeth

and red staining the corners
of my eyes

i ascend despite a crooked wing

© 2016 Stellular Scribe