by O. J. Cade

A sparrow flies through a dark hall.

The hall is empty,
and through the shuttered windows
light shines from other dwelling places,
all of which are also empty.

It does not remember the first hearth it flew from—
the gilded cage and the echo of hammers
are engraved but lightly on its heart
and life before the hall was a short space.

Nor does it recall the feel of fingers on its feathers
when the shutters were opened and it was let loose.
It cannot imagine how it will feel
to rest in another pair of hands.

Ignorant,  the sparrow flies through a dark hall

and sings.


O.J. Cade is a PhD student at Otago University,  New Zealand – her thesis is on the development of science poetry as a genre.  She’s published several short stories,  and has had other astronomical poems appear in Astropoetica and the Otago Daily Times.

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