beside Kate Walbert
What does the bird caged know of the sky?
I let the door open on its brass hinge.
It doesn’t un-grip its rigid claws from its swing,
the bird does not move nor blink its seed eyes.
No trick, it could have done it, many times.
I shake the cage hard and shake it again.
It just swings. I must turn the cage upside
down until it wings for balance. Imbecile.
It could have used its beak to lift the latch.
I pull it out; it bites my thumb, the skin
tight there, it hurt so much I fling it.
I would do anything to bring it back,
I’m not as happy as I imagined.
The door hanging without the latch that fit.
Janice Colbert, a writer and painter divides her time between Toronto and Key West, Florida. She holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of British Columbia. Her poems have been published in the LRC and Prairie Fire. In late fall 2016 her chapbook is forthcoming with Frog Hollow Press.
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