by Nahshon Cook
Last night, I sat in my room like a Mongolian lark looking out the window from behind the bars
of its bamboo cage at a sparrow in the tree–and feeling like a flower pot that never leaves the
front porch, while I prayed to Erato for a story that would make me human again. She arrived
dressed in a pair of big, carrot-orange butterfly wings outlined in white, polka-dotted black trim.
After I'd grabbed something to write with, she recited this poem for me: