Upon leaving the house today,
I saw laid out between two white cars:
a body. One red claw protruding
from her plump belly, curled
as if grasping for air.
Her head was tucked
beneath her wing, stretched out
like a shield, moments before
the scream that came.
How peaceful she appeared
on the tarmac, stricken with sleep.
Her ashen feathers bleeding white
at the tips like angel wings.
I waited for her to stir.

About the Author:
Jiye Lee is a British-born Korean writer and spoken word poet from Newcastle. She focuses on themes of cultural identity, travelling, family, mental health issues, love and loss. Her works have appeared or is forthcoming in Literary Orphans Journal, Bandit Fiction Press, and BBC sounds.


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