The Glass Menagerie

alabaster skin pressed against the glass

flat and conforming

to the thin transparent cube

she and they pushed

with glimmering glow

of sickly hue

as if to make it through

there are bodies in there

our very own menagerie

arms and legs protruding from nowhere

stop

she says stop

enough is enough

stop

back to factories for glass making

a little surprise inside

emaciated limbs like sickly trees

but the birch is pale

alive and well

with strength in the inner -

stop

listen, please the trees

form their impenetrable grove

so unceremonious

so uncultivated

but still invariably calculated

it's written down on a white blank sheet-

stop

the cube, a mish-mashed press

an orgy of white calculus

slowly sinking into the earth

unearthed when un-saviors arrive

placed on display for the public to see

many come and stare-

stop

at the bodies piled in glass.