Monday Morning


If you see them around at the school gates,

tell them I will not be coming.

I have made a cage out of feathers,

soft pillows, the sort of trap

that holds me embryonic

except that my hands

are the closest I’ll come to perfection.

These fingers, jointed and curled

have never stroked tobacco

nor stabbed a friend in the rib.


I will not go

when the school bell calls

or the teacher crows my name.

They will not know where I am.

Not even the moon has rooted me out,

eyeballing my window all night

where the stars are shaking and laughing,

though I have never had faith in the moon—

unshadowed, it cannot claim even its lights.

Like me, it is forced into being;

teased into sight by the sun.


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