In the middle of a circle is an old and flicker bone, in a silver in a buckle in an
earring open hole. On the slide and splinter doorway is a sledge we pulled by bells, track
and pacing rusted leather draped across the kitchen floor. This yeast was too sheer for us,
this empty spiral salt.
In a circle in a circle is a grey and spotted bird. How we cherished its liver, staled
bread with its lungs. In a photo in a photo is a splinter and an eye.
We ran on sharpened catgut and we played in breaking glass. Rang bells each
time we stepped, tossed each pigeon in the well. If an antler was a blessing then a sour
In a house within a circle is a bowing empty shovel. In a house inside a house
behind a sliding splinter door. We spilled the flour softly, put our feather scales to bed;
rusted leather in the foyer, picked our scabbing nails and toes.
Lived in a bridge where the water was stopped. Lived inside a troll and between a
feathered man. Lived inside a circle in a circle made of salt. We ring the bells each time
we step yet never hear us coming. A flicker and a splinter and a sour in our bones.
Jenny Fried lives in Virginia. Her work has appeared previously in Cheap Pop, X-R-A-Y, and Milk Candy Review,
among others. Find her on Twitter @jenny_fried