A yellow bird fell out of my mouth
squealing and wet, chewed up
and you held it in your hands
like an apple seed.
“How’d that get in there”
you ask, back to the white
cinderblock of my dorm
stroking its damp feathers.
Cooped up and stuffed
for a long time that grief
bird squabbles for attention
nipping at vocal cords and
stomach acid saunas it keeps
begging to escape to
tell its unraveled story
and regurgitate food back
up for its healing young
still inside me.
It’s this time of year
again and hibernation
is done cold compresses
on stomach lining
vomit bucket yellow
this bird twitches in
your hand yet not even
the red clay of my
raw heart could
deter you
could make you want
to hop out the
window and go
dig a grave.
Maddie Baxter studied English and Creative Writing at Wake Forest University. She does not know how to ride a bike and probably never will. She currently lives and works as a copywriter in Charlotte, NC, and hopes to pursue an MFA in poetry in the coming years.