The robin lies as if waiting for wind to tear from its breast its sun burst feathers. Head and neck wrenched sideways, still lifelike, one eye glints a speck of sun, sun in the center of that black eyelid stitched white. To touch, I bring my hand close. The wing lifts. From a burrow in… [Read More]
Ely Shipley
The witch doctor told me
first, you must cut out your heart. You can only imagine. It was not a flower and I’d forgotten to ask what to do with the heavy wad of pulp and puss torn, as if by talons of a bird not strong enough to lift it away