tribute to emily dickinson

they have taken her.

hope.

she is trapped in the great big house made of new money & keys

that open nothing anymore. it is named america.

you can hear her,

                                   listen! her cries cut the eyelids of the senate. they are all blind nowadays.

people see her family every day;

they live in the meadow, tucked amongst the cornflowers. somebody 

has been teaching them how to use a knife.

her cage is rusted shut. there isn't a lock. her soft brown wings

are bloody but she beats and beats and beats them trying to get

out. if hope isn't here, what is?

they've taken her -

hope - yet she chirps in our ears every morning because

the sun still rises over the dew and there is always more.

she's the thing with feathers

that perches in a cage

and sings the song of protest with every word she has

and never stops at all.