Aubade for Larks in December

The sky waits to be cleaved 

like a tongue against a railing. 

You scratch the paper walls,

wings aching for warmth.

Sirens slice through this photograph. 

The slivers of wood on the windowsill

cleared of snow. I can imagine your talons 

there, parsing, calculating. Your heart 

a ripped parachute, trying to billow 

in an abandoned lot. Sweet diagram of skin,

muscle, bone. You’ve flown for too long, sang

for too long into the echoless air.

It’s migration season, as in the stopgap

yearning for something more. Thirty floors

down, the ants buzz in the plaza. 

The morning shudders through your belly 

and I breathe chalk and feathers, too.

Emma Miao is a 15-year-old Chinese-Canadian poet from Vancouver, BC. Her poems appear in Cosmonauts AvenueGlass: A Journal of Poetry, and The Emerson Review. She is a commended Foyle Young Poet, and her spoken word + piano album, Oscillation, is forthcoming this winter. She loves watching sunsets and listening to the waves. Tweet her @emmaamiao.

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