Quartet at the Café

Seven Portraits of Hope

“Hope is the thing with feathers.”
Emily Dickinson

1.
Hope is the thing
with feathers and claws
gripping itself around
the soul of a branch,
gripping its claws
tighter and tighter
tighter and tighter
tighter and tighter
tighter and tighter.

As the wind howls
on a starry night
defiant and determined
hope’s vision pierces
through the fog of invisible

sees the markers
of what could
exist.

Hope closes its eyes
and sees through the
fog of darkness
holds tighter and tighter
tighter and tighter
tighter and tighter
tighter and tighter
tighter and tighter

eagerly awaiting the sun’s
rays to beam across
its face.

2.
Hope is the thing
with feathers.
Some days, some days
some days it feels like a motherless
child, a long way from home
a long way from home.

At night,
hope sleeps on a cold
blooded, cement floor.
A thin blanket draped
over its knobby needs.

It tosses and turns
tosses and turns
tosses and turns
tosses and turns
turns and tosses

yearning to dream of mamå,
papå, abuelita, pelotas,
helado, cielo.
But dreams don’t come,
the lights never go out,
and the temperature never rises.

Hope is an unaccompanied
alien who arrived to the
planet in worn, dusty sneakers
rather than in a spaceship.

Separated at the border,
abandoned by coyotes.

Hope is sent to la hielera,
la perrera
little cold, steel cages
made with gilded gold
and crooked promises.

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
A long way home, A long way home.

3.
Hope is the
thing with feathers
that hops
in chalked squares
on the playground
double dutch and pigtails
braids and band-aids
double dutch and pigtails
braids and band-aids.

Hope giggles in class
when the teacher’s back
is turned.

Hope holds fireflies
between its palms
on summer nights,
licks melting strawberry popsicles
and walks its dog, Mario,
around the block.

Hope still remembers
the day it learned how
to its shoes,
holding a circle is the
hardest part. It’s so easy
to let it unravel, slip
through your fingers, unravel.

Hope is nervous about going
to middle school, puberty and pimples.
Hope doesn’t want its voice to change,
its body to take a new form.

Hope doesn’t want to be bullied,
pushed around and called
outside of its name.

Hope is like Peter Pan
never wants to grow up,
wants to remain a child forever.

Silly yet sincere,
naive yet innocent,
clumsy yet careful.

4.
Hope is the thing
with feathers.
It wanted to be a drummer
but it had no hands.

It wanted to be a soldier
but it had no boots.
It wanted to be an orator
but it had no words.
It wanted to be a student
but it had no teacher.

It wanted to be a citizen
but it had no papers.
It wanted to be an equal
but it had not privilege

so it became a thing
covered its disappointed
scars with feathers
and learned how to fly.

5.
Hope is the thing
with feathers.
Let us marvel
at the expanse of her wings.

Broad and wide
she stretches.
Broad and wide
she stretches.

Clipped wings
once left her
unbalanced.
She leaned to
the side as she
tried to fly.

Her ends were left
exposed and she began
chewing on her cuts,
try to regrow them,
resuscitate a dead thing.

Have you ever seen
hope trying to heal herself?

Her instinct was to fly,
spread her wings
and ascend.
Yet when she tried
she could only lift a
few feet off the ground.

She thought something
must be wrong with her.
She is a feathered thing
and fly is what she was made
to do.

But these new found
restrictions left her
feeling blue, down-trodden.

When she flies
fear fades.
She leaves it behind,
ascends to higher
heights. But now she is
stuck on the ground
with fear.

And fear is a like a virus,
spreads quickly,
it’s in the air, invisible.
It cuts off your breath.

Have you ever seen
hope trying to healing herself?

6.
Hope is the thing
with feathers.

When you put her
in a cage, she’ll sing
you a song about
forgivness and fortitude,

she’ll rock you to sleep,
singing you a lullaby

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word
Mama’s going to buy you a mockingbird

And if that mockingbird won’t sing
Mama’s going to buy you a diamond ring

And if that diamond ring turns brass
Mama’s going to buy you a looking glass

And if that looking glass gets broke
Mama’s going to buy you a jar of hope.

And if that jar becomes empty
Mama’s going to give you empathy

And if that empathy is torn
Mama’s going to teach you how to mourn

And if that mourning last too long
Mama’s going to teach you a brand new song

Some glad mornin’ when this life is over
I’ll fly away
To a home on God’s celestial shore
I’ll fly away

I’ll fly away, oh, glory,
I’ll fly away
When I die, Hallelujah, by and by
I’ll fly away

7.
Hope is the thing
with feathers.
It soars and saunters
roars and wanders
contemplates, ponders

Hope is the thing
with feathers.
It waltzes and wobbles
waddles and models
hovers, hobbles.

Hope is the thing
with feathers.
It dances a jig.
Hates anything rigged
It zigs, it zags yet
never lags

Hope is the thing
with feathers
It flies. It soars.
Unclipped by gravity
It believes in more.

More faith
More love
More joy
More peace

Hope is a thing
with feathers
flies in from the east
lands in the north
talks about peace,

the need for unity.

Hope is thing with fears
open you eyes and see.
See.