Deconstruction:
'I Know Why The
Caged Bird Sings'

          Center of my maypole, I
          am the descendent of Eve
          and Hildegard, and of Odetta.
          I am she of the lullabye
          and the nigun, of aria
          and ballad, of spiritual, of Bread
          and Roses, and the honest Shaker
          hymn. You may have heard me
          chanting in the back seat
          of taxis, and the bow of birch
          canoes, caroling in kitchens
          and in launderettes, whistling
          Chopin by the side of
          the chlorinated swimming pool
          (dreaming of dolphins), humming on
          backyard tire swings and
          subway platforms.
          You hear me celebrating births
          and birthdays in languages
          I do not speak. You will always
          hear my dirge as the body
          is lowered in the broken ground.

          How do I know? in the sweep
          of sound I am yours. You reach
          satori and I shimmer with you.

          Because I must. Because you must.

          The bird. A bird. Still the bird.

          Behind bars, she has chosen
          life. Life is freedom. Free
          as a bird. Freedom
          is life. We cannot always
          unlock the cage. Is there air?

          sparrow, pigeon, egret, owl,
          heron, hawk, blue jay, chicken,
          parrot, nuthatch, robin, goose.
          Birds fly. Feathers and wings.
             White dove: bird of peace.

          One magical March day, I,
          beige lady, on vacation,
          possessed by possibility,
          improv with a band of Black
          men in a park in New
          Orleans. Clarinet, slide
          trombone, sax, guitar, steel
          drum. Each in turn is master
          of his 3-line message. We
          others wait, respect married
          to ecstasy. Now I feel
          the heat of an arm around me, bass
          player pinging with his other
          index finger. The clarinet
          and horn caress that sweet diminished
          fifth, holding the whole world's
          breath. The universe is mine.
          I float my soprano riff.
          Kingdom is Come. For a moment
          we all dissolve, skin-
          hair-eyes-bones man/
          woman, young/old/, brown/
          black/beige/ tourist/all-
          their-life-playing-blues-guys
          and the music wraps us up
             tight as a rocket.