Canary in a coal mine
                                         never learned to speak
                                         never learned to fly
             they used her candle to warm their calloused hands
        Covered in scars and smoke and soot
        before she learned the difference between
                           A hearth and hellfire

Canary in a coal mine knew she was porcelain
                                        A storefront display never meant to
             Fracture
     fragile
        forced into a gilded cage
        But little did she know
        “handle with care” was a punchline not a promise

Canary in a coal mine
         Is
    Crystalline commodity
    Taxidermy tucked under plexiglass
    Away from dirt-caked fingernails
    Poised to pry her wings apart

Canary in a coal mine
    Is just another news story an
    age-old metaphor;

    I was 12 years old when I read about Brock Turner
How rape was met with a light rap on the knuckles:
“Six Months for ‘Twenty minutes of Action’”
    Because his hands were of ivory towers of chlorine ablution absolves
    soot-stained sin
    But like the rest restless to reap
 the rewards of tearing down a temple they had no permission to enter, leaving me wondering
whether my wings would too, be clipped

    Whether my treble voice would be sore from screaming like I was a

Canary in a coal mine
         No longer sings full-throated golden noted arias
         Instead
         She learns to croak a battle cry
         Learns to fly away
         Close enough to taste the moonlight sky six feet above aboveground

Canary in a coal mine
         learns to dream of
         Dust and ashes
         Ashes and dust,
         Becomes a phoenix rising

Canary in a coal mine
             learns to be infinity