You Were Not Yet Ready

by Emry Trantham

What I need from you is the feather

you keep in the back of your throat,

the one you found

when you were a child

and swallowed as one swallows

a seed, praying for germination

and the downy bounty of wings—

even now, it brushes

your words to wisps of air, clips

your questions to eggshells in clover.

I have tasted its tip with a twirl

of my tongue, and twice

I’ve glimpsed its vane—

fanned amidst your song,

a sail against your scream.

Come here. Unhinge your jaws and show me

the cage where your stories sleep.

Withdraw the damp bedraggled birdpiece

lodged within your larynx.

Place it in my palm and exhale

with the full expanse of your lungs;

watch the feather flee from

and upon your own breath.