by Jennifer Jerome

Little owl, sit in my throat like you belong
there, nestled in behind the clavicle. Claws
catch my collarbone, a white branch. I can't
feel you when I run my fingers over the round
skin, something as hard and old as stone. Inside,
bones breakable as twigs, feathers kicking dust.

Jennifer Jerome is a native New Yorker. Her work has appeared in various publications, including The Pedestal Magazine, The Comstock Review, Pebble Lake Review, Astropoetica, ChiZine, and Minnetonka Review. She loves many fruits — particularly pomegranates, mangos, and crisp, tart apples — but strawberries are her very favorite: big bowls of them, generously splashed with balsamic vinegar, make surviving summer possible.

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