By Ashely Adams

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

bullfrog string.

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

your silhouette

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.