There was a poem throwing itself around in my blood.
Something about a bird and a cage.
Ah, yes! Don’t they all work birds into their masterpieces, their sonnets?
I don’t care. Sometimes a poem finds you out and it’s about something borrowed, something blue. Perhaps we should hand the skepticism of our own minds over to the depleting work of rigor mortis. Just be honest. Just write.
I told her she was free.
Re-mastered the lock, dissolved the key.
“Don’t be stubborn, you’ve not had a good home.”
Her heart kept a boring tempo – an unkempt metronome.
Occupy the space in the sky!
I’m giving you a voice, another try.
Lift yrslf with the flaking dead skin.
Transcend the roof of my home. Be bold – know no whim.
She shuffles her claws in linear motion.
Neither phased nor impressed with my clean notion.
Opens her cracked beak
And violently speaks,
“I’ve only known this rusted tin and you, always watching me.
Now you loftily proclaim I’m released from gravity?”
In an attempt to explain,
“Bird of my house, don’t be alarmed. I bring wisdom from above.
This is not some trick, this is love.”
Then the cage dissipates.
The bird gone, a fake.
A Voice deep inside,
“That bird is not real, the bird is a lie.
In her parables you hide.
In her bleak feathers you confide.”
“You march around, so confidently.
You search for your cage. You seek modestly.”
“Child! You have wings yet you stumble on feet.
Woman! The cage was never your home. You live in me.”
“I bring bright shiny lights from above.
This is no trick. I am Love.”
“In the backdoors and attics of your mind you retreat.
But open your veins, accept a new beat.
You know my voice
You are my sheep.”
“Call me your Love. I’m not just some Sir.
You are beautiful. You’re not just some bird.”
Eh, well…my words, unfettered. Amateur, I know. But I was honest.
Sometimes late at night I go to sleep and think about how much of me I didn’t let be me and how much of me I let Him release. He kisses my cheek, whispers me to sleep, “Freedom you’re given. My daughter, you’ve been set free.”