by Eliza Fixler

Can sprint in the double digits
speed past the cyclists grinding upward

can puff her feathers, sun herself
on the face of your warm side in winter

can trap the heat with her wings
for later, survive the torpor of your silence.

Can feel an opening, bash in
the head of the snake, she wasn’t made

to stop and think. The tip
of its tail will hang from her beak

for hours, til her belly has room
for the rest. Still, be kind to the bird. Shear

the shade from your garden,
leave her a sunny side. Without it,

she won’t survive the chill.

Eliza is a therapist and poet currently based in Pittsburgh, PA. Previous works have been published at Chaotic Merge, GASHER, Beaver Magazine, Up The Staircase Quarterly, Querencia Press, and others. You can follow her writing at @elizafixlerpoetry on Instagram or Bluesky.