The wicker bird that used to perch
outside my mother’s cell
would creak its claws and upwards lurch
and wing a way to hell,
and trace absurd geometries
and soar ungodly high,
exceed its heart’s thermometries,
ignite, and burn, and die.
When morning came, the soothing dew
would **** its flame-stained lines
and build the wicker bird anew
to try another time.