Caged By A Bird


Hope is the thing with feathers,
Emily Dickinson once wrote.
But in my soul is perched an ostrich
With wings clamped around my throat.
I don't know how he managed-
The coop's door was bolted closed.
But in he swooped,
Breaking free from my locks
And building a nest inside my heart.
He's been pecking away at my innards for months
And piercing he talons into my gut.
He squawks and he squeals and I hate his name
Slipping passed my tongue.
Yet queasier still is the aching feeling
That consumes me when I am without
The outward touch
Of a goodnight kiss
Or the flutter of feathers
Pressed over my own
In love's ever-visible
Grasp.

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