bird jar​

my body is a jar filled with birds
screaming and ripping at my edges
beating their wings and being borne down
by the inescapable vessel of self i have
contained them in. i have named them:
sorrow and terror and confidence and peace
among their one hundred and six neighbors.
feathers are routinely pushed into my throat--
invisible from the outside in--
when they rumble and rush like skittery ants
and i am bent over a tub
trying to wretch out every bird,
every last feather, feel nothing;
barren cage, empty bird jar.
fingers nor blades can kill them:
the goddesses of my heaping human self.
not a bell jar, but a bird jar
sealed by lip touching lip.
akin to a bell jar, but rejecting
insanity—embracing the chaos
of birds trapped in a jar.

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MEGAN LOLLEY
is a fourth-year undergraduate student at the University of Idaho, where she studies Education and English with minors in Spanish and Creative Writing. Her work can be found in The Looking Glass, The Albion Review, Thistle, and Vandalism, among other undergraduate literary publications.

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