There Must Be A Way

Sara Wallace

Somehow, sitting in this café courtyard—

the tarry asphalt of the parking lot

held at bay by the thinnest chain link fence,

the patio the width of a fingernail

and seventeen apartment windows

staring at me—I don’t feel free.

But do I know anything that is?

Is the red face of the one zinnia

bravely peeking over the lip

of its terra cotta cage free?

Are the lights blinking at daylight

and strung over the fence in an attempt

to soften the prison yard effect free?

Are the Cadillacs and Hummers heaving

in the sun three feet from me free?

How about the men bent over potholes

or the children walking to school,

swarming like a hive of excited ants

stirred with a stick?

Or my mother tending her sick husband

as he crosses the border checkpoint

to a land where he won’t know her?

When I hear the word free

I think of flying things.

Milkweed—it’s sun-struck waft

over goldenrod in September,

Vs of geese, golden eagles

lifting off from mighty crags.

I forget they come back every year.

There must be a way to wake every morning

inside the room of one particular life

and be free in it—sort of like how you wander

the rooms of your house when no one’s home,

trailing your fingers in silvery dust,

nothing to do and no one to answer to for once,

and each room blooms

and you see faces in the shadows,

hear songs in the dripping tap,

not lonely yet, accepting the cage,

scurrying like a grey house spider

who thinks she’s safe.