If you were raised, say,
in the bleak, airless core
of a cage too confined
for your bird bones to bloom –
if you were fed, say,
the same bean crust on clay
‘til your tongue numbed, gave up
its vestigial sense –
if you escaped, say,
to a tall-windowed house
streaming sunbeams and choked
with persimmons and plums –
each delicacy
would be ash in your mouth.
Nightly pressed into silks,
still your cheekbone would bruise
against the pressed earth.
From your uncoiled crouch,
you would see in vast beams
still the rust-flaking bars.
# # #
Esther Rohm
Photo credit: Terri Malone
Joy Mahar is an emergent writer living on the outskirts of Detroit. Her work has…
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Beautiful!
Thank you!
This is truly a beautiful, haunting poem. It conveys deep depth of meaning, while invoking imagery that pulls the reader in. It's rare to find a poem which completely captures the reader. You should definitely write more, as you're obviously gifted in that way!!