the floor-to-ceiling windows matter more than the whitish print of
a something bird, perhaps crow-like magicking through the corpse
as if it were the first thing to die; i refused to kiss that bird watcher
once because she ordered quail eggs at dinner in this economy in 
this restaurant where everyone can see her eating another’s young
in this bed with the sage sheets and the un-sage advice on where to
put it, that is, the quail eggs, that is, the love that won’t dissolve two
thighs clenching in concession, nests of flesh inhaling two sense like
enlightenment comes on the eve of her shoulder, coming or splitting 
some relishing yolk, that is, the love that won’t dissolve a species,
banging into the same window pane, or at least we arrived together

Julia Yong is a poet and perpetual student, currently rooted in Philadelphia, PA. She is the Editor-in-Chief of Temple University’s esteemed undergraduate literary and art magazine, Hyphen. Her writing has received recognition from The Academy for American Poets, SORTES, Dipity Literary Magazine, and ALOCASIA, among others.