Without song

letters from a salvaged sparrow

head

Dearest,

The walls close in. This space, familiar contemptuous place is shrinking  . I put my hands to my head, and it feels diminutive. Perhaps my hands are growing, the greater me shifting to hold my infant self. It is an odd egg, frail and fused to keep dreams encased –  a small fruit, fleshy. There is an unquiet urge to bring my hands together, twin-palmed vice to crush this pale alien globe…implode and propel seed forth in a scarlet torrent that gushes to the floor and out the padlocked door onto the streets. I will flow outward onward, under the sky without ceiling – following the path without end.

 

I have no song.

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