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
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