Jessica Newman

She slept fitfully, Aurora, though not uncomfortably. Her sleep showed, the descent and rise, the false movement of dreams.Morning breakfast. Chalky eggs left smudged words smudged eyes in the pan. Bacon stripped of fat which she discarded in a separate garbage bag. She liked looking at how much she could've eaten. She listened to the rising voices and imperfect faces confined to radio. She came to recognize the voices as an uncle's.She moved through subway cars eyes half open, a walk from her bedroom to the kitchen.and on her face smudged pillow lines.and on her shirt a stain where something once had been.Emerged outside to blur of heat, passing sidewalk squares. emerging sun and squints and she stops. On the cement a baby bird, foiled. It lay there folded, an enwombed fetus. Other things it could have been:
a dried leaf, curled
a heart
a mistake.