“Insomuch, I can see” by Jordan Wirth

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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