The Cage
The Cage Her only company the fans her son Arrayed around her, making a pun Under his breath about her celebrity. One in her living room aimed at her Chair, the other in her bedroom To worry over her while she slept. Don’t move them, he told her before He shut the door. Thin suitors With their wide faces of blades. Or a gray, birdlike blur in a cage. She’d had birds, not so long ago, then One day forgot to give them water. The cage still hung in the corner. Some days, so hot, she mistook it For a fan and stood before it, Wondering why she felt no cooler. Oh, he checked on her, but only because He didn’t want town talking About how he’d left his mother Up there to die. You’re too thin, She told the one in the bedroom One night, then unplugged him And carried him by the neck Into the kitchen as if to feed him. When he found her under the cage He thought, Funny — dead in the living room. The swing tiny feet had gripped Was swinging imperceptibly, and, In the teacup, rocking on its quill — One bright yellow feather.