My arms are a field of burial mounds

Owl-fingered, greasy

Beaked, my feet are

Spools of blue ribbon,

My feet and hands visceral

Cells, stone-flesh, semi-

Translucent, my hips

Soft white hills. Razor blade cracking

On snags of weedy flight

Feathers, my arms are a field of burial mounds,

Scarred earth tracing the lines where like a God I plucked my quills,

Now poking through anyway.