There are no bluebirds in my heart.
No chickadees
or starlings.
Just an empty
cage, with dried
blood and feathers.
Someone
crushed the thing
bare-handed, twelve years ago.
On purpose, not like Lenny.
I still don’t
have the nerve to look-
there may be bones.
I don’t clean
or put another there
with fresh millet or new paper.
I don’t use
that corner anyway.
Nothing sings.
A cricket comes,
once- I think it might
stay, its tiny violin
a thing of beauty
in that filthy
place. I say,
thank you,
mr. cricket, for the music.
But he moves on.
My family, they worry.
Call, stop by,
ask so many
questions.
I make a quilted
cover for the cage,
sneaky-like
pretend
there’s life inside.
I sew and paint. I am
so damn artistic.
It looks as if a
healthy bluebird’s there,
I guess.
From a distance.
I say, I’m fine–
It’s nothing but
a burden anyway,
who wants it. I’m too
old and busy, it’ll
only die.
Besides, I don’t need
a bluebird
tucked inside
anymore,
do you?
