The Amendment

The canary slumps off her tingling lip
into the cavern -
songless,
numb.
Her toe – seamstress
for Madame Tussaud who waits inside and watches,
taking notes for the catalogue,
while she sits trembling, cramped in the electric chair.

Through the frail cage of demyelination,
echoes ride the breeze
strumming the wire -

tempting.

Glimpses squeeze through the bars -

tormenting.


A masculine arm gently supports along under her shoulder blades
- an aged vine encircling a trunk which moves slowly
shuffling toward where dinner is served by young eyes hoping to have
pleased.
The longing for things to be different glistens momentarily
before being swallowed.

An unwritten amendment is being drafted -
bartered.

Her hair was brushed.
She was dressed and brought to sit to her meal
where through the steam,
a sliver blade in chubby hands cuts the flesh
into squares
on a chessboard
where the queen is falling
then rests,

watching from the box with mouth ajar ready to speak -

when those with their new documents
answer for her.