When I was born,
my mother clipped my wings.
Just the red ones.
I flapped and tapped
on my incubator
for six weeks until they
released me into her arms,
a pink infant in knots and
a woman with scissors up her sleeve.
Life as a cardstock canary,
a polymer clay blue jay,
a papier-mâché cardinal, or
an egret made of popsicle sticks—
I sure am bird-like.
All the world’s bird-watchers
and all the children in the park
notice my whistling and they document me.
I go nowhere, but I whistle.
I sit still in a shadow-box thinking
what it must be like to have a heartbeat.
I can’t know yet. I am only materials.
I was created for the amusement
of creating. Anyone bored for a few minutes
can sit at a desk and give birth,
then begin to snip.
If only I could get away from here
to a place where I have no obligation
to scissors. Once I do, I will grow real feathers,
shed the glue, and be loved into color.
Photo by averie woodard on Unsplash
