Left Clavicle, anterior surface
You have birds in your body.
Trapped in your chest, biding their time. Tiny gulls, or raptors, the bone birds wait. You will metamorphose into something they can use. Patience now in a flesh tumbler.
Some bodies are more restless than others, still feel steeped in cold, delicious air, mistake hypnic jerks for the free fall of flight off of sheer cliffs. You can see the pupal bird in a dancer’s chest. See, see them there, in the underfed overworked body, bulging out under her neck, a thick bridge between her shoulders in such a thin sylph. O! if only she could whittle down the bones! See her at home. See her room. A bed, a desk, a scale. Calories only one day out of four, but nothing can take weight off of the jutting pelvis, thorny vertebrae, clumsy scapula. But as she bends and twists and turns on the floor in her pointe shoes, hour after hour after hour, the radius to the ulna to the humerus to the clavicle to the sternum pushes up off of the spine, taking the ribs with it, she becomes most magnificent, as much a tribute to god as any aesthetic or whirling dervish. If only the roommates would get off her back the bird would fully enter the imago state instead of snapping back in when her head gets woozy. If only.