She hangs
Baskets by birdcages
Flowers, a shovel, paper weights
On loose newspapers that flutter
In the wind—a bearing,
A stone garden for zen.
Wing clippings. I heard
She had a backstreet abortion
Once she crossed the law—
She knows no-more-wire-hangers
Better than I do,
I imagine
The Swinging Sixties when she
Protested the state. Combustible,
She set fire to what she couldn’t have.
A daughter, mother, time-traveling-
Voodoo-witch—
A pilot or a debutant,
Turned madam. In pearly mink
Jet-setting to Russia, or China
With a secret camera
For her sabotage. A volatile agent
She wrote it down,
Then burned it.
Or she never left this city—
I didn’t know in passing
If the chatter had any grounds.
A basket tips, the wire hatch opens
Dreams, papers, seeds
Thoughts that lock you in a birdcage.
Photo by Darius Bashar on Unsplash
Beautiful