I cock my beautiful head
to the side to forget I’m cooped up.
It’s the longest winter
I’ve braved in the garden room.
Syllables fail me like lost crumbs.
I want out. Yet I don’t expect my cage
to fall apart or dissolve.
There are countries not as bright as
my fading plumage. Against dark leaves
I still look stunning:
hard beak,
hard head,
hard heart.
Just leave me alone.
So I cackle.
So my broad tongue revamps
your strange sounds.
So my voice
mimics a computer. Call me
off-tune opera if you want.
Spread wings shadow my perch.
Can you imagine I would fly
again? I toss my head
to one side and, unheard, gurgle,
“flock,” “tree.”
