after dickinson

i've been tracing the outlines 
of my ribs, poking
into the gaps, the soft cracks
where i might find entrance
to reach in and grab
the thing with feathers.
 
i've been telling myself it's there, fluttering 
the way they say it should.
i've been telling myself i can hear its tune
in the hinges of the swinging door
that hangs open as
the chill land presses
against my cheeks.

but this tinny squeak
burrowing into the orifices 
with claws like broken violin strings
snapping against a snare
sending needles into the fingernails—
this must be the sensation of an empty perch.

i've been tracing the outlines 
of my ribs, poking
into the gaps, the soft cracks
to reach in and grasp around.

if i can hold it,
feel it squirm in my hand,
peck at my skin and sing
against my pulse,
then maybe i can believe in hope.