Her holy transformation into the common household pigeon
began with warmth spreading, from her lungs, outwards.
She started to lose herself as she reached forty-three degrees,
memories becoming flat, colours becoming foreign, but
her awareness would not leave her before this all ended.
Next it was her bones, hollowing out perfectly, a job already begun
by two decades of osteoporosis. She had never taken meds:
she did not want to imagine sedimentation clogging up her veins.
The beak came as a gift, unexpected, sharp, and she used it
to open up her blouse, a distraction, as her ribcage split open.
Her heart beat like it did on her wedding night, and faster,
and like on the night of her divorce, and faster, and she remembered
touching her daughter’s fingers, soft like feathers, pink like eggshells.
About the Author: Emma Gorka is a writer and poet from Eastern Europe. She writes about alliances and transformations, and about happiness that comes at a cost. See her publications, along with the occasional blog post, at https://emmagorka.wordpress.com/.