Caged

Who can cry loud enough to rattle the bars,
to split the hush like lightning in a fenced-in field?
I've learned to stop listening for the yelp of the wounded dog
wherever poppies bloom in careful rows.

Who can teach a gash to speak its own name without
the steel mouth of its maker translating the ache?
I’ve learned to press my palms flat against the howl,
swallow every shudder whole until even I forget my voice.

But tell me—if pain is a beast pacing the rib,
and the spoon’s firespill is extinguished forever,
what happens when I unlatch the door?
Will it roar? Will it whimper?
Or will it step into the light, blinking, trembling, free?