A lump in my throat,
Not heavy like Adam’s apple
or sharp like an uncut gemstone.
A fairy wren trapped in a deep
well, flapping its wings to keep
itself in mid-air.
Where did the egg hatch?
It’s hard to recall from
a thousand places in memory.
Was it a bucket of fried chicken devoured
before fatigue from night shift stroke?
A cigarette lit
amidst toils from scaffolds to concrete?
A water bottle lost in a forest
where homework piles and chalk-dust flies?
There were nights when
this bird wants free from its cage
screeches and scratches
yanked its host up from bed.
Yet tonight it was so quiet,
tame like a little lamb.
What is its pain compared to millions of bubbles
bursting at once in another’s lungs?
Tiny discomfort would be a boast.
The host, now lying flat,
breathes in all the tickling sensation
with a grateful grin and
joining all thoughts quaking the bars around her mind,
drifted down into an abyssal slumber.
Wishing everyone good health and happiness,