The cage is gold,
with baroque filigree
and rhomboid diamonds
interspersed with wheels.
The white dove swings
and tries to forget
that once she had tasted freedom
and felt the breeze and sun on her wings.
Is it any wonder she no longer sings?
As Dionysos stands there watching,
held tilted at a queer angle,
he wonders why she doesn’t just try the door
since it’s wide open.
Instead she’d rather swing
in her misery,
and tweet about it.
Then he had an idea
and filled her little trough with wine
and waited to see what would happen.
“Drink,” he whispers, “and be free.”
