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Poetry

“Hope” is stronger than feathers

Johanna E. Hall
issue three

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My sister reads Dickinson for a class

and is asked to analyze her metaphor

of hope—and hoping

to be done, she writes quickly, almost

flying over the speed bumps

Emily’s em-dashes create—

what I mean is, she has a bird. My sister

has a parakeet, a thing with feathers

that squawks and flutters,

scaring the dog.

My sister cannot read past

what perches in her room—

and so hope is yellow

to an eighth grader—

that semi-reliable narrator.

My sister’s bird—

who could break in one turn

of the ceiling fan,

whose bones are smaller

than the dog’s teeth,

who goes to sleep whenever

we turn out the light—

my sister, whose bird

will, pending miracle, live

less than a decade—

my sister wrote that this metaphor,

for all its accolades,

was not effective.

Birds are very fragile—

and are walking across your

homework, asking for

crumbs—but hope isn’t.

I don’t know what metaphor she would choose—

or how she weathers her sore storms—

my sister knows only small flying things—

and, in extremity, needs more.