AMY BOBEDA


                                     



SOME PEOPLE GO TO THERAPY




Some people draw birds, my mother builds
wings, fashions ceramic pinions like an hourglass

grounded by weight, pinching perfect
glassy beaks and eyes suspending fragility

porcelain exceeds strength of bone
hollow, pressed together two concave bodies

become the breast of a single bird inhaling as her
lips blow air into the bird, slip the cavern closed

—what do they call it, wings against their
sides, ballistic with a small amount of lift–

—bullets off a veranda, an artery thrumming
beyond skin in the kiln a catacomb

of words bounding.






TYPO 33