Some Songbirds Never Sing
ekphrastic (MET)
I guess I should be flattered by their gazes
watching me
from outside this thick glass.
After all,
is it not every young lady’s dream to catch
the eye of all that pass by
without having to lift a finger?
But I am no young lady
and have not been for quite some time.
I long ago stopped flitting away from the hand of a loved one
to find myself craving their touch
(anyone’s touch).
There was once a time when I reveled in my beauty
honored by the loving eyes
of the lady of the house.
I never expected to live long enough
to reach a century
in which I stand as an antique
and thus am placed carefully behind glass
never to feel skin again
for I am too delicate
(always too delicate).
And thus I have never upheld my purpose
and never will.
I’ve never called milady to supper
or claimed the attention of a room.
Though I guess I mustn’t complain
as the cellmates that surround me
have sung
just as much.
Many of which stand taller and
far more decorated than I
and so have always remained
in such displays.
And so our beauty is our curse
of disuse and silence
and our shiny covers crack and fade
and my loneliness is displayed through the cracks
in my silver.
For this ball on a chain
that swings still beneath my skirt
weighs heavy on my aging heart.