baby bird mortality rate

poems are fledglings.
we writers thrust
them out
the nest
when we think
they’re ready
to soar—(or,
when we’re ready
to kick these moochers
out the damn door)
but here’s the thing:
not all were meant to fly.

stomping through decay

sometimes life
is a lot like
a beach
swimming in
sea turtle
corpses, their green
giraffe scales
faded by the
absence of life
to ghost white
flesh flimsier than
an oh-so-thin
sheet of ti-
ssue paper
(bless you)
recycled many
times over
and if you
try to push
through the mush,
their gaping holes,
voids for eyes
dart downdowndown
into the depths—
the ocean floor
of your soul
pleading
for you
to let
them be.

& the saltwater which carried them here
ruined their corporeal cohesion, then
buried them upon the shore—
tide deposits, these sodden cardboard coffins.

the body’s a funny thing.

if you’re feeling generous
(and a little rundown)
you might be inclined
to give it permission
to grow ill—
you say go ahead
do what you need to do
& then when it does,
the brain becomes
irate—
bloody mad at the body
for calling its bluff
& it’s just so easy
to forget
how painful
healing can be.
because a wound
must process,
but skin can’t mend
without a sharp sting
from stitches sewn
& what are scars
(anyway)
but ghosts of injuries past?

illness is always
a war for the spirt
& the vessel &
statistically speaking,
we won’t always win.

Author’s Biography

Abbie Doll is a writer residing in Columbus, OH, with an MFA from Lindenwood University and is a fiction editor at Identity Theory. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in Door Is a Jar Magazine, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, and Ellipsis Zine, among others. Connect on Twitter or Instagram @AbbieDollWrites.