My Womb, Hollow

— Stefanie Kirby

Like teeth: birds line the bridge, divide
into wings to become hours falling in

on themselves grain by grain. A gradual
burial in time, where sand curves

into a belly. Into an abdomen of sky.
The light fades to feathers, to crimson

rot: a body in descent. A position designed
to release, not keep. Of a bird, I’d rather eat

the heart, which is filled, than the uterus,
which is unfilled. Still: neither fulfilled.

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