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.