Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump


I think she is the youngest,
closest to the light.
It's not the moon that lights them
or disaster, but something unknown
and finished, touching her right shoulder
like a sunburn.

Air has left the space around me.
The girl, stage left, stares center, but
I am stuck on her. The way
I pull my rain-ruffled collar away from my neck
is the way she pets the folds of her sister's skirts,
like advice heard but not heeded.

I have squeaked down this hall just to wait
for awhile, but I don't believe in accidents. Everyone here
is me. I am the jailkeeper, opening my cage.
I am the sacrifice. I am the sister hiding her eyes.
I am the hand on my shoulder, urging me
to look. I am the magician, the scientist,
and I am painting the spectacle.
I am the youngest girl, waiting.


(november 2006)