Found these notes scribbled in one of my files. While I apparently meant to assemble the pieces into a longer poem, I’ll string them together into their own piece here.
Perfect hands trace the lid,
keys etched in clay, a chain
of shark’s teeth and their warning.
Then, curiosity lifts
a gauzy wing, a jeweled eye.
White teeth pierce a petaled lip.
A lift, a roar — and then
all the insects of the world
rush toward dawn, toward depths,
And one last. Turquoise shimmers,
a jungle sky, a butterfly.
The hand, now scratched, cradles it.
Know then what the caged bird knows
or the root in the cellar:
That beating wings against wire
can’t create the hurricane
to blow the walls to dust.
That thrusting your will against
the dark does not mean you
will be planted in the clay.