The angel in the box lies in wait.
Sound’s empty waves obscure the face of her moon,
as turbulence flutters through her feathers
in a space simple and compact
like Earth’s confined clay.
She imagines the snatches of humanity
who imprisoned her, immobile and apart,
locked inside this simple angel trap.
Oh, how she longs for music,
like a junkie with a fix,
a mix of minor-stringed No Crows, some harp,
and a little folk in her range to help cover time.
The angel prays that the blundering pair who trapped her here
will lift the lid before her wings lose their luster
and there is no need for her balm.
Brenda Warren 2013