On one of those days 
when the key refused
to fit the padlock,
I turned myself to air
and squeezed through 
the keyhole.
It was bright outside,
and I was tired
of all the jostling women—
Nomad, with her fraying
suitcase, Devil Woman
with her lacerated
tail, and that sad little lady
with her stained and grimy apron, 
who seemed so familiar,
disintegrating 
in a thousand homes.

All these women,
and a few more,
were crowding in,
and the keyhole
that sat on my shoulder
was at cracking point.

I knew I had somehow
lost my way 
in the brightness outside,
after all those years
in a dingy room.
Stretching my legs
was a strain and breathing
was a whole
new experience,
but folded up
behind my back
I found some wings.
They were slightly dirty, 
but once I got used
to their rusty screech,
I found, strangely enough,
they worked.  

I am making friends
with the birds now,
and have discovered
my talons too,
which sink perfectly
into the eagle 
with his beady eyes. 

Breathing is still
a problem sometimes,
but the air is warm 
and I have left those 
jostling women behind.

From Safe House, 2014