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Did you hear he shot her up & down & all around?
To them the independence didn't make a sound
Upon the nightingale, behind the curving spine
Talons always scratching at that which isn't mine
Anyone can tear apart a wing with brittle skin
Placid protrusions bursting one by one
Bone through thinning leather cries gently at the breath
No robin's babies tucked inside, no blossoming of flight this red
With a narrow marrow, my leg tightens like the night
I believe this invasion to have been impolite

Writer(s): Annika Bentley

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