Mother Feast

Did you see the bird’s

beak in my mouth,

passing half-digested

words,

broken syllables,

rich with phoneme,

connecting pine-needle

bones,

closing in me an

excuse of worms?

I grew, chirping, on the

ground.

In seriatum,

I made vessel

of my young, messages

in

broken syllables,

rich with protein,

arranged in other ways.

Beak

or bone, cycle of

stars, we opened

– all of us – to flight and

giving words

and how we fed!

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Ewen Glass (he/him) is a screenwriter and poet from Northern Ireland who lives with two dogs, a tortoise, and lots of self-doubt; his poetry has appeared in the likes of Okay Donkey, Maudlin House, HAD, Poetry Scotland, and Gordon Square Review. His debut chapbook, ‘The Art of Washing What You Can't Touch,’ is available from Alien Buddha Press.