landed somehow in my
bathroom trash basket,
dancing frantically among tissues.
I told her in a singsong voice
I wanted freedom for her,
lowering a short glass with folded paper
angling to evacuate.
She found corners in the bag inside
and skittered to climb the crinkling plastic
exhausted then retreating to a fold.
I urged her on a minute longer and then scoffed
some creatures might just rather die—
maybe more prefer a death they know
to a life they don’t.
Later I came back to see her still
trying, dancing, hiding—
if the only hands you see offering
help look like the same ones that hurt you
gets hard to hold.
I turned the basket over
out on the front stoop and
She dizzied spun around then
righted herself to run.
Freedom demands some undoing.
Not every victory can look you in the eye.
Done (Free) can be enough.
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