I

When the voice sings,

the heart sings a different kind of song.

II

The two heartbeats are out of tempo:

the fetus’s pulse rushes on like a never-ending melody;

the mother’s sings a lullaby instead.

And yet they share a vessel,

one form of the same tune.

III

In three-four time the heart monitor beeps.

One, two, three: Grandpa is still alive,

as if he and death were dancing a waltz

seeing who backed out of the dance first.

One, two, three;

One, two, three;

One, two—

IV

There once was a song

that I heard in the hum of summer crickets.

It vanished into the winter frost.

V

I lived under a house of illusions once.

In that house, you could make your own choices,

your own music.

Outside that house, though, there was no songwriting.

You sang what you were given;

your own songs mattered not.

Isn’t reality cruel sometimes?

VI

I know why the caged bird sings,

and beats on the bars of his own vocal cords.

Get me out, get me out, get me out.

I know what would happen if someone came along

and tore out the bird’s throat and his will to live.

Who keeps a bird malnourished but alive

if not for it to sing?

VII

And what happens if that bird is malnourished but alive

but refuses to sing?

VIII

They repeat and repeat

and repeat

and repeat

and repeat—

IX

When the voice sings,

the heart sings a different kind of song…

X

I dedicate this song to the caged birds.