September 11, 2017 | Occasus | Issue 7 | Poetry

Sparrow

the world was whatever size I allowed:
a shoebox, grey microcosm, scent of oil and leather,
a kitchen counter, smooth, trellised with crumbs,
my hand, or the porthole gap between my fingers,
or nothing but flesh, an airless
cage of fingers, walls so close it could crush
leaf-vein bones, the heartbeat fluttering,
swelling against the sinking sides.
 
bent wing and frayed feathers, it begged
first for the shoebox, until that world grew
too small; it pleaded for the kitchen counter:
able to see further – glimpsed yellow walls,
confusing them for sunlight. that also grew
too small. too tight. made jagged leaps into the desperate air,
a pilgrim praying to reverse nature; the walls were just walls
and it was not enough. stuttering hops
allowed the sight of a window,
groaning open on shapeless questions,
and my kitchen was suddenly no world at all
 
it was getting better, she thought, she even said,
voice wavering like the trembling heartbeat,
when I assured it the world was my hand,
and squeezed.

MICHELLE BALEKA is in her final year of the Honours Specialization in English Language and Literature and Creative Writing program. She has two publications, including “First Strains,” a short story published in the Spring 2015 issue of Symposium. She lives in London, Ontario with her two cats.