He sits on that long wire, stark and solitary,
a dark hyphen in the gloomy backdrop
of the winter's sky
a Blackbird, perched there for weeks now
the way my grandfather sat on that chair in the kitchen
staring at the teapot, waiting for the whistle to blow,
waiting for someone to tell him his wife wasn't dead.
Even in the snow, that lonely bird keeps
chirping with his mouth wide open
like a hatchling hoping to be fed or
waiting for the flutter of his mate's wide wings.
I wonder if she's lost or dead like Grandma
or maybe waiting for him somewhere
with a broken wing, unable to fly
but she hasn't returned and I don't think she will.
Grandma didn't, no matter how long that old man waited.
He wanted to die too, so he went in the bathtub
and never came out.
Blackbird's losing his feathers . . . it won't be long now.
Joanne Cucinello 2012