Wrinkled faces behind glass windows.
Ours are always open.
I see her. Her crystal blue eyes.
She can’t fly away.
White hair, gold earrings.
I wonder if she has a name.
Yellow cup, sippy lid,
But she’s not a baby.
Brodie thinks she’s just like her,
That one day she’ll jump outside.
Our house isn’t a prison.
I don’t have the heart to tell her.
Copyright © Emma Guinness 2018
Emma Guinness is a writer from Glasgow. She recently finished the manuscript for her first novel, be guid tae yer mammy, and has previously published in a number of journals including The Honest Ulsterman, From Glasgow to Saturn, and The Attic.