Sparrow in the School Daughter, I see you in the barren corridor, frozen and pulsing: too shamed for shelter, too hungry to pray. A pale sparrow, far from home and too afraid to sing, careers from wall to wall. Truly I tell you that not one of these will flutter madly tiny, dirty wings between the red Exit in its wire cage and the counselor’s door without the knowledge of your Mother in heaven— but a spear shall pierce your own heart also, for you cannot teach a house sparrow, two they are for a penny. You cannot point, helpless, toward the door opening on to the courtyard, cannot offer the false grass, the smogged sky. And the sparrow beats her wings, panicked, bereft, four hundred sixty thumps a desolate minute. Know you not that I see you also, between the red Exit and the world, your own blood hard, fast, a cage around your softness, teeth and tongue in your mouth? Say to me, daughter: I have shattered my wings from flying to nowhere. I need an egress, a nest. Mother, give me more sense than a sparrow. Lead me out and the bird may follow. And I will take you in my hand. I will set you against the sky and array you in lilies. I will hold your humming heart near mine, still aflame for you and your broken world, red as an Exit, pure as a sparrow flown, spent, finally, home.
Abigail Myers lives on the South Shore of Long Island with her husband, daughter, and two cats. She has published essays in the Blackwell Philosophy and Popular Culture series and offers poetry, fiction, and nonfiction on spirituality and art at abigailmyers.com.
Amethyst Review 
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