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Grief - Jennifer Jerome
Feb. 17th, 2013 09:32 pmGrief
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.
Back from a week's conference! Apologies for the poetry!hiatus. Please accept these uncharacteristic attacks of blogging instead.
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.
Back from a week's conference! Apologies for the poetry!hiatus. Please accept these uncharacteristic attacks of blogging instead.
