Missing Child

So, there are these chefs in France, right? Well of course
you knew that, there are
chefs everywhere. Sorry.
But these French ones: They’re already
pretty successful, I mean
they have their own restaurants. But they want to cook up
these birds
(these little brown ones)
and serve them after dinner like
a bunch of flying, singing
cups of tea.

And I started maybe thinking,
what is wrong with these French people?
I mean, they have other animals
to eat,
and these birds
don’t hurt anyone, and I guess
maybe the problem
is that I’m scared one day I’ll wake up
in the stomach of a man
drunk
on culinary supremacy and avian flu,
blinded by delicacy,
seduced by my collapsed wings,

and I’m no four-‐‐inch songbird but I like where I live.

I hide in a cage with a lock, and I don’t
think my body
is what a hungry Frenchman wants
to cook,when he reaches his
spindly, tree branch fingers
into the unbounded cavern of his outdoor refrigerator,

but if they can’t find Hannah, what’s
stopping him
from catching
me?