"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
I am more fragile than you think, dear one.
My mystery is trapped behind this iron maiden skin
and in, inside these bird cage ribs, behind the feather lips
all dry and cracked from cold north air –
a little flutter fills a space, where chills once had a resting place.
They culled my wings a while ago,
and let me freefall gently. Each ten thousond metres one would say
“I’ll catch you, but I will not stay”.
And so I fall
asleep I think of you a lot, but awake i’m icy because you know.
I’ve not forgot
I’ll not forget each pair of hands that reached inside my iron walls.
Peeking through the eyelet holes while whispering their ugly lines,
scratching at the surface of my polished metal sides,
my mousey voice squeaks outside
‘you can run little bitch, but you can’t hide’.