All the magpies are here, all the wings in the soup,
stirring the recognition of flight out of all touching.
A milky breast and a missing tooth, a maggot.
A winter in the pines, a wind that binds.
A real ghost in open wounds and closed sockets. In the middle,
fork-tender bones, bubbling spice-water, lemongrass,
the bite, the bright red meat, all this and chewed.
Tasting again and plucking again and the last eggs.
From Poor Anima by Khaty Xiong, Apogee Press, apogeepress.com. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.