the bird inside me flaps tight beneath my skin, scratches
with tiny claws at my insides, tells me that the only reason
I'm not a sack of deflated skin lying by the side of the street
is that it's just too small and tired to break free. I take a deep
                                                                                          breath
force the thing inside me still with the pressure of my lungs.

sometimes at night, I can feel the wings of the tiny bird inside me
slipping into place just behind my shoulder blades, feel
                                                                                 pinfeathers
stretch all the way down the front of my arms, and I whisper
no, you can't have me yet. I hold the wings and claws and pointed
                                                                                               beaks
tight and still and quiet inside me, murmur promises of a day
when I'm so old and tired myself

that there'll be nothing left to hold it all in.