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
Angel Rosen
Angel Rosen is a poet living near Pittsburgh. She can be found at open mic nights, drag shows or writing poetry in the dark. She is passionate about mental health, queer friendship, and Amanda Palmer's art community. Her writing can be found at angelrosen.com.
