Attic apartment, birds nesting between roof-tiles, I hear them scratch and I hear them cry. The rustle of their mother’s wings, the quiet sounds of sacrifice and hunger, these pink-fleshed chicks inherit their parent’s strength and swallow it down with clacking beaks, I hear the slow devour of motherhood, the gentle expansion of growing wings sprouting feathers.
My bed-sheets awash with haze, outside the city shivers in the winter air and gathers itself into suits, newspapers, morning commutes, polite conversation and I watch the sun catch my ceiling with unblinking stares, prying its way across the room, frothing up tidal at the edges of my bed and always stopping short. Shadows turn to grey and I listen to the birds feed, the birds cry, the birds quivering with hunger that runs deeper than stomachs. Somewhere, far from the dull ache of my head, the weight of my ribs, my stomach sinks with quicksand slowness, swallowing up every ounce of stale atmosphere, black hole rippli