sign language

My hand, a birdcage.

Inside, a wren.

I let her craft all of my best poetry.

(you know what they say: wren writing, wren done, wren laughing at a pun)

That first part is not true.

My hand isn’t really a birdcage: it’s a cave. Cozy, dark, closely fit to wren feathered wings.

She likes it there.

But it means I can never open my hand.

Not once.

One Response to “sign language”

  1. nilla Says:


    deep, visceral response here…that was *fabulously* poignant.


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