Propriety

the birdcage was empty
but still caught her eye
as the memories of life--
frantic flutters, chirping murmurs--
played themselves out behind the bars.

a flash of yellow feather, orange beak;
then silence
and monochrome wallpaper.

holding her stomach
against a swell of nausea,
she remembered the blue-green water
of the sea; foaming at the mouth of the river,
tossing a sailing ship on its pitiless waves
as a small soul tossed within her.

like the bird, the little one had grown
and passed from her,
left her to the murmurs of old age
at twenty three;
the curtains of her own empty cage
drawn against the sunlight
lest her white skin be marred by its caress

no one else would take her
if she were to allow herself to be touched so,
though it seemed only fitting:
her love had long ago succumbed
to the embrace of the sea,
like the bird,
like the son stillborn,
like the morning's light;
the childhood where horses and ponies were only acceptable
if she rode them side-saddle,
a life skill to be used in later marriage
and longer loneliness.

the little bird had been her one last joy
but even with wings it couldn't fly,
and the thought had grown too painful to bear

and her fingers still hurt
from the frantic scrabbles
as she'd held its clipped wings a little too tightly.
but at least it was free now; cage empty
and only the memories remained to hold her


(she shouldn't let herself be touched so)