Mother taught me never to talk to strangers.
To keep as close and quiet to myself
as a fish drained of its pupils by crows.
To think, I must have tossed inside the womb
like salt thrown over a shoulder at weddings,
wrestling with the silence of her amniotic fluid.
Tereus opened me.
But I have no metaphors for this.
Language failed me upon his entrance inside
my body, his trespass,
long before he lifted out my tongue
and fed it to the birds.
At night, I watch him from my perch.
Think about leaving my feathers behind
in his restful slumber,
plucking out his teeth one by one
with my beak.
Leaving him old years before his time,
each molar rotting slowly
inside its grave of bone.
Meggie Royer is a writer and photographer from the Midwest who is currently majoring in Psychology at Macalester College. Her poems have previously appeared in Words Dance Magazine, Foliate Oak, Melancholy Hyperbole, and more. She has won national medals for her poetry and a writing portfolio in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and was the Macalester Honorable Mention recipient of the 2015 Academy of American Poets Student Poetry Prize.