Prairie Fire - - AMY LEBLANC -

she knows she is not a cav­ern

or a bird.

she trick­les bound­aries

with a cage carved on her chest

and a lock placed in her stom­ach.

she is a par­cel,

a pot of syrup,

two hun­dred and six bones,

a quart of cold cream.

she is the sum of her words

un­tied and united

drip­ping their echoes in a teacup.

for the first time,

she is not fran­tic,

her plumage stays in­tact.

she is sewn from the same

ap­ple skin and ver­biage

as the spoon on the wall.

she splits a page

to sign her name,

break­ing the bone

of her quill,

and nes­tles into her form.

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