Grief
by Jennifer Jerome
Goblin Fruit, Winter 2013

Little owl, sit in my throat like you belong
there, nestled in behind the clavicle. Claws
catch my collarbone, a white branch. I can't
feel you when I run my fingers over the round
skin, something as hard and old as stone. Inside,
bones breakable as twigs, feathers kicking dust.

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Back from a week's conference! Apologies for the poetry!hiatus. Please accept these uncharacteristic attacks of blogging instead.