Is it a cricket, a refugee, chirping behind solid bars?
Rub the legs, hope to see, there is nothing in the
darkness. Close the eyes, look closer at the fate, waits
ahead, who, it can’t understand why there’s nothing
there. Open the eyes, still see nothing, can’t help,
wonder if there ever was anything beyond these bars.
These bars can’t see, can feel. Have made themselves
felt. They’re there, all there is to know. Still rub the legs,
maybe if it is a cricket, not a refugee, some careful ear
may hear the call. Maybe there is no one listening, its
plight. No helpful ears. No ears at all. Holes in the heads,
birds of prey search for a snack in the inbetween. Thank God,
these bars never leave, keep safe from death. Is there
room in limbo, cricket, a refugee? If not it still can hope.
There’s no room in heaven either. Are there falcons?
Is it just the wings of devils? They flap, flap, flap, waves of
blistering wind, slap the shell
the skin.
Jordan Wirth is a senior Creative Writing major at Chapman University.
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