It took three days
to pull your wings from the metal grille.
What can a man do with an owl
a shroud of cardboard and terry cloth?
There’s no one here to roll back
your stone. To call you to choir,
the caterwaul thump of
I don’t need gauntlets to
clean your perch where you turn
spheres against astroturf.
Your eyes full of holy fire and nebula
as I wonder how
you sing these gular hymns.
There’s no one here to bury
your quiet wings. But I wail
against the last full moon.
Ashely Adams recently acquired an MA in Writing and Literature at Northern Michigan University, where she also worked as an associate editor for NMU’s literary journal, Passages North. She has been previously published in Rum Punch Press, Heavy Feather Review, Permafrost, Flyway, and Anthropoid.