Mockingbird puts her wings akimbo and talks
my ear off at the bedroom window. She rambles
the way I imagine my grandmother calling
about her day, how the autumn breeze fluffed
her feathers and reminded her of husband and children,
how much she misses them, how she wishes
they could come home soon.
Languages skip in and out of her mouth
the way rainwater skips between leaves.
I recognize only one.
She waits, perched on the windowsill, disappointed
until I tell her—I only understand
when you say hello. Then
she gets it. She holds my face. She says:
hello hello hello hello.
my ear off at the bedroom window. She rambles
the way I imagine my grandmother calling
about her day, how the autumn breeze fluffed
her feathers and reminded her of husband and children,
how much she misses them, how she wishes
they could come home soon.
Languages skip in and out of her mouth
the way rainwater skips between leaves.
I recognize only one.
She waits, perched on the windowsill, disappointed
until I tell her—I only understand
when you say hello. Then
she gets it. She holds my face. She says:
hello hello hello hello.