cw: none

The canary has never flown;
to fly would mean it would not be owned.
It wonders, now, when it can see the sun
through the room’s tiny window,
what it would be like to soar.
A canary is made to fly and to sing,
and with neither, it wonders:
is it even still a canary?
Or has its very canary-ness been taken,
thrown onto the ground, shattered,
glasslike and glassy
like death’s own reflection?