If you ask me, I may know why the caged bird cries.

I used to think of deserted water as the loneliest,

then I realized the sun’s the creepiest.

It peeps from the sea’s blanket with its hands within,

looks around, and reptiles far away into the sky, quickly.

The earth is now spiral, like a snake chasing its tail.

I know because time is the only thing moving.

‘i’ is a candle with an invisible wick, burning dots upon itself.

Walls do not send fire upon a matchstick

scrubbing its forehead against their bricks,

because I think I smell the kerosene of

‘the third world war‘ like ‘Christ is coming soon.‘

I was hypnotized; my beak does not fit in the cages’ iron.

There are voices hidden in these walls;

I hear cries and giggles that are not my own.

Something, someone, somebody farts in the air;

We, us, our soldiers are fighting unsure wars.

The clink-clank milk squeezing out brown, black tea

is an outbreak hitting my head, skull split, rebellious soldiers?

I know I have sinned.

I know Isolation is idolatry—

worshipping the deity of separateness and loneliness.

I know because the wind is the only thing outdoor to stir the children’s swing.

Source: From the Isolation Issue (September 2020)

– or how to bail on your bed.

First, one needs a nose respirator or a lab coat,

a science-student or a surgeon.

Lock the bird up in a box made up of transparent carpentry.

Fear is enough to make a bird a scapegoat,

the sky is what a bird needs to disappear.

Dissection into a correctional institution is an inside job.

The bird is not caged.

It would be best if you placed a penny in an inmate’s hand.

The officer’s circumrotation is from the right; you take a left.

The bird has a different look, maybe a butterfly—

the one that flings around your belly

when you’re called upon to give a speech.

Something like a slingshot is us on you from the audience.

You’re not sure; your mind is a battlefield of negativity.

The bird will not be caged.

Tonight, the correctional officers are not changing shifts.

The prison smells the same. When you wake from your bed, the dissection is your body structure carving your likeness on a foam.

Your hands are in plain views all times;

visitors are not allowed to hug nor touch you.

You know this is not pure science,

the deadliest weapon is launched in your psyche.

A bird’s cage is her song.

You’re a survivor; you’ll bring the war in your throat to its knees.

Please take out your cell apparatus,

that item we use to put one within electronic frames.

Smile. Chirp. Break loose. Let the still-life victim escape.

Source: From the Isolation Issue (September 2020)