Cage
On one side of the world two men argue
over the placement of sticks as they lay a fire
in the woods near the festival. The fire
attracts many people who shake to the sound
of hands slapping drums. On the other side
kids unpack their water guns, their little sacks of flour
and build stupas out of sand in the river.
I sit in the hard dirt looking all around
and try to be glad for one thing. But watch
a seated crowd from a distance
notice how many people touch their faces, or wave
their arms, as if to form one animal stuck
on its back. Once a year it’s tradition to purchase
a tiny white bird in a wire cage, only to walk a few feet
and release it. I’d be less restless
if I could, periodically, let one thing go—
a spider inside a suitcase, the voice
of someone I despise. I could smile truthfully
across a fire at someone with whom I may
never speak. If you and I ever meet, dear stranger
on a bumpy train, in a car where we are forced
to face each other and become anxious
enough to talk, let’s talk frankly
and about uncommon things.
[Originally published in The Believer]
