it's not a cage, it's a resting place

the box on the shelf
velvet, deep purple, the color of heavy drapes/ of crushed blackberries, the thorns
are the seeds, semicircle, kneeling stones at a ritual 

hidden behind dusty frames, behind the cracked orange of the terracotta pot,
thoughts too much like taffy for chewing
so I spit them out. Cleansed my mouth of the memory, of

fingerprints stained with blackberry,
salt shuddering on the tongue,
of letting something ugly bloom, half-fermented, instead

I watch crystals cut sunlight into freckles on the banister,
dancing,
and daisies open like Pandora’s questions on rosy tissue paper

I would rather think of the ladybug painting her wings in the sunbeam
I would rather taste straight sugar, no tang, patch the pottery, plant different seeds in the garden and
let the berries wait