The wing-maker, the partridge, and the boy who did not quite belong to the sky

Branded and banished, I am sorry to report that I am not entirely sure

what the caged bird has to sing about.

Such a saltwater and starry-eyed sweetheart,

my son now sleeps with the sand dollars.

My child would never live to fly higher than I,

on waxy wings or otherwise, nor would my sister’s son.

My boy’s ambition swelled so big I was bitter;

I bit off and crammed down his throat more than he could swallow.

Perhaps young chaps with wings strapped to their backs

should keep in mind the space between the sky and the sea,

as well as the space between their turned backs and me.

What good is ingenuity when his bed is a ledge lined with twigs

or the lowest branch of the pear tree?

For the burden of the bull bucking between my city’s shoulder blades,

I do not feel ashamed.

For the death of the little saw-maker and my sand-buried baby,

I feel no remorse.

For the inevitable downward spiral of my invention,

I fall on my sword.

What good is ingenuity from behind the brass bars of this cage?