She is the accoutrement of a cage
clasped irrespective of occasion.
I carry her pale, tremulous fist
aggrieved by the imperatives of war
in my sacrum as if I were a basin.
She is sacred, rareified water,
the salt that signifies entanglement.
She clusters at the end of my pen
the perfect cheat, the myomane
with a heart the shape of a strawberry.
Her wide grin swivels and floats away.
I sew her runaway feathers into my back.
To know freedom is to love
with the lightest touch possible.
the first half is from an older poem and I continued it