Baby Bird

There comes a time when hunger
surpasses the ability to devour,
when the ache confines you to the floor,
and you see that desperation
is a germaphobe
begging you to spit in her mouth.
I mean that hope is a flaky cereal
I’m asking you to chew for me,
I am asking you to cup me in your hands
and honor my newborn feathers,
I am saying that I will only survive
if you understand what I am.

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Jessica Natasha Lawrence writes about chronic illness, realistic hope, and the beauty and trials of ordinary life. Her work has appeared in The Clayjar Review, Tiny Wren Lit, Write or Die Magazine, 50-Word Stories, and To Write Love on Her Arms. She also runs a Substack called Dust and Birdsong.