Ornithology

Bird parts keep turning up
on the school playground.

Last semester, a whole wing
torn neatly & glistening black.

Today, a head. My daughter
is a fidgeting ball of what-if.

Already vegetarian, she swears off
soy proteins made to look like poultry.

I feed her broth. Broken noodles.
Hot cocoa dripping down the mug.

We venerate the pair of displaced coyotes
who stumble down our sidewalk at dusk,

the owl who greets us on our nightly walk.
Once, we watched a hawk snatch a bat.

This was her first beheading. Gone wing,
gone chest, gone feet: she inventories

what remains. Beak stilled, brain-gears
stuck in suspended animation, eyes locked

in perpetual gaze. I stay until her head
grows heavy with sleep: Yes, I love

every part of you, yes I still would.

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Julia Ross (she/her) is a poet and public special education professional from Austin, TX. She is the author of the chapbook “Sacred Beetle Contemplates the Funding Freeze” (Ghost City Press, 2025). Her work appears in Dog Throat Journal, 2River View, About Place Journal, Rise Up Review, The Marbled Sigh, and elsewhere.