This bird, this Innerbird - she means you well,
but clenches in at times so very small
she’s hard, tight, an acorn, a stomach pain …
in other moods you feel her fluttering
like the purple wide-sleeved garment of a queen,
frantic within you - a wild queen’s will
stirring your farthest reaches till you scheme
to set her free. That wish leads you to know
you’re her idea: this bird invented you;
your purposes and due-dates are her trap,
her cage of concepts, arbitrary as a map
holding Montenegro, Montana, to one special place.
Go transparent. Disappear. And the the bird’s released.
But never give that unbound bird your name,
or again she’s small within you, seed within a cell.
Your absence lets her soar forth at her will -
at last she has no wrappings but the air,
but sweeps out hugely, and is everywhere.