The bird hides inside, tucked inside my ribcage,
the feathers hide my heart. You can smell its desperation on me;
even through the cigarette smoke and birthday cologne,
it huddles dark and black and wet.
The bird is in here, barely visible,
damp, white feathers pressed into a tight, red space,
flailing in the sick, hot, summer,
midnight heat. We have all become
other women over time, there is no need
Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Grain, and The Tampa Review, while her newest nonfiction books are Music Theory for Dummies and Tattoo FAQ.