Watching the Tree Bird

I clung to my baby blanket that wrapped around my limbs. my limbs, small and swollen, cushioned by my mother's organs. I was warm, I clung to the insulation of two beating hearts. 

cut in half in a ceramic bowl, the edge of the spoon carves out the meat from the middle, sawing at the membrane that encases the pulp.

the contents of the atlantic 

are tucked behind my ear. 

the other isles have oozed into my hair

parasitcally working their way down my throat