I remember being seventeen
when a sparrow lived
inside my mind,
jumpy
timorous
always looking
for who might be looking
at me.
I left home,
walked and walked,
crossing borders like cracks
in the sidewalk,
preoccupied with the tedious beast of me,
such a careful bird,
such a slipshod tour
of the world.
I tried opening the cage
but the bird didn’t fly away,
it sat at the centre of me
with those darting eyes.
It was Henry Miller in the end
who unwrapped me,
a quote I read
as true as metal.
Thank god
for fearless writers,
hands for mapping out plots,
hands for the neck of a bird
whose claws came gently undone.