Cranium, mandible, and ribs,
pelvis scattered in femurs,
this is no owl, but obstacle
abstract for the foraging bear
that sheared off feathers, then tore
the meat, the muscles of flying.
For it, the delicious red,
welling over the tongue, to lap
airborne essence, overbearing
in animal fountain, to fill
hibernation, its cloying night,
through this naughtiness.
And here they lay, casual bones,
nonsensical lattice, for lips,
teeth, a jarring jaw, an easy
meal for great mammal, eaten
and broken away, leaving
his pile, our particulars.
Return to Spring Issue Volume 11.2
Andrew Jarvis is the author of The Strait, Landslide, and Blood Moon. His poems have appeared in Cottonwood, Measure, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and others. He holds high honors from the Nautilus, INDIE Book of the Year, and NextGen Indie Book Awards. Andrew holds an M.A. in Writing from Johns Hopkins University.