He begins like we all do
pillows of subcutaneous fat—
those full cheeks are
the bowing sides
of a chicken’s egg
They grow up so fast,
fast as my thumb flicks up—
the photos sent skyward—
each of my nephews taking flight!
as his lips
earlobes, knees and teeth
toes thumbs
dissolve
Now a bird, I wonder
does he
still have a tongue?
I never did know enough about birds
or nephews
Adam Gnuse is an MFA candidate at UNC Wilmington and was a 2018 Kenyon Review Peter Taylor fellow. He’s currently finishing up work on his first novel. More of his writing can be found in Bodega, decomP, Guernica, The Los Angeles Review Online, New South, The Wisconsin Review, and other magazines. You can reach him at adamgnuse.com
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