Birdcage

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

Written by 

Alexandra Meehan is a neurodivergent poet and poetry editor residing in Gainesville, Florida. Alexandra earned her BA in English from the University of South Florida in Creative Writing.She has mentored lyricists and has worked as a professional writer and as a creative director. Alexandra enjoys watching foreign films, cultivating carnivorous plants, and painting. She is enamored by wordplay and has a lifelong obsession with Emily Dickinson. Alex's work has appeared in Feminine Collective and Rhythm & Bones Lit. She has a forthcoming poetry book. Follow Alexandra on Twitter @LexMeehan

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