A Bluebird
Danced to its reflection.
Out of despair
She sang of sadness
While everyone looked to her, smiling
At their chosen embodiment of joy.

“Do not look for my body, my wings,
To do but what I make of them,”
Sweet bluebird defiantly sang.
Bitter and aching to bludgeon and shatter
And fly away, whole.

“You who do take from me
Without even permission to ask
For the value of my sweat that you
take for sweetness. My wings,
My soul, soaring as your expectation,
Sore as my dancing feet.”

Bluebird sat cold awhile,
Resting herself against ruffled breast.
Fury choked at her but the notes of her
Calm agonising song littered the branch
and the floors beneath.

“Ah bluebird,” said her myriad suitors
Snapping at her heels with their cameras their
Binoculars their snares and telling her purely
Of their demands, of their willing;
Of her body. Of her wings. Of her soul.
Of her dancing feet.

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