I’ve been waiting three
for your skin to soften into something
I can recognize
counting your edges when the tea is cold
with your frostbite
spoon-feeding forgetfulness to your grudge-
child when you are too hungover to
sharpen your claws
I have been waiting three suspected counts of arson
for the ashes to give you back to me
I write about the sun and fire quite often, especially in regards to destruction and rebirth (Icarus flying too close to the sun, the phoenix, the sunset as a violent death followed by a night that births a sunrise).  Birds too.  I identify with birds, especially the cage part.  yellow birds with clipped wings, caged birds that still sing,  limping, broken messes of feathers that somehow learn to fly again.    This poem doesn’t hold any of that, except the ashes bit is definitely a nod to a phoenix.

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