by Grace Kuhns
A bird is trapped inside the body, perched on the liver, twittering for release. It flies up to flutter soft wings against the heart. If ignored, it grows within the ribcage, gathers mass by feeding on flesh, morphs from warbler to condor, flaps larger and larger wings. The sharp beak prods: Say it, Say it, until the mouth opens. Then it flies out: He’s not really your father. Mom, Dad, I’m pregnant. I’m gay. I have another wife in California. I’ve always felt I was female. Loved ones stand agape as the bird circles around the dining room. Some will shriek and cover their heads, some chase the bird with a broom, some offer it food and water, some have already been listening long to its muffled cries.