by Denise Weaver Ross15 Oct 2013
I am not a freak, whose cage
you visit for release, baby,
a side-show at your circus. My
body is a sacred temple where you
worship. I hear the snake rattling
in the garden, slithering always
closer. Its warning, always
the rhythm that rocks our cages,
provides the syncopated rattle
shaking us to the ground, baby.
The gates, swinging open to you,
can also be barred, yet my
heart refuses to retreat. My
affection open and free always
betrays me, but the wounds you
leave must be healed. Your cage
is a trap you have made, baby.
Your fear will always rattle
the foundations as you roll, rattle,
and hum, building barricades. My
courage stands unshaken, baby.
Still I cannot fight your battles. Always
running away, you hide in your cage,
licking self-inflicted wounds. You
have a terrible beauty that I fear you
will not accept until death rattles
and breaks your mortal cage.
Lions, tigers, and bears, oh my,
the circus master must always
remain in control, baby,
In the end, cages broken, you and I,
baby, are left to rattle as dry bones.
Still my soul says, until always.