Click
The door is open.
It has been open for three days.
The sky outside is an endless,
terrifying blue,
a ceiling with no rafters,
a sprawling room with no corners
to press my back against when
the shadows stretch.
The poets outside write sweeping
verses about my clipped wings.
They weep for my songs of sorrow
behind iron bars,
projecting their own claustrophobia
onto my feathers.
They don't understand that the bars are ribs,
and I am the heart suspended inside.
If you crack the ribs wide open to
the wind,
the heart does not suddenly sprout wings and soar.
It is exposed. It stops beating.
I hop to the threshold, look at the
boundless, hungry sky,
and pull the little brass door shut with my beak.
Click.
Ah.
Freedom.
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