LOCKED CAGES, OPEN SPACES

Because he scared me, I had to say yes

and meet him at the east end of the park

where empty birdcages are locked

and thieves prowl in search of nothing.

I remember some secret steamy whispers,

promises padlocked to bridges

all over Paris, rusty metal lasting longer

than most impulsive urgent vows.

I dislike being noticed, wear black

only plus the small wine-colored

beads from the market in Essiam, Ghana.

They remind me of flame-colored dirt,

roads, orange like glittering snakes,

disappearing into lush fields, kids shouting

Blanc! Blanc! How do they know? Scent

of palm oil, rich and sticky in our lungs.

Because I live so far away from what I am,

I’m only real to myself when I perform,

or pretend death is the only way to die

as if life’s not full of empty spaces.

PUBLISHED IN 1-70 REVIEW,

WRITING AND ART FROM THE MIDDLE AND BEYOND

SUMMER/FALL 2022