The Birdcage Under the Skin

The magazines on the table are three months old

and the air in here tastes like bleach and cold.

I’m sitting on paper that crinkles when I breathe,

waiting for a name that I’m forced to receive.

I ran for the phone and caught the edge of the wood,

a dull, heavy thud where the dining table stood.

Now my fingers find the ladder-like ridges of the cage,

pressed tight against the cotton, showing my age.

It’s a fragile architecture, these white curved bars,

holding the heart back from the world and its scars.

I’m just a collection of sticks and a bruise,

waiting for a doctor to give me the news.