dispatch

I long for a voice like a wing,
feathered and soft, that I might tell
you everything that hides within.

The perfection of plumes
laid side by side, hollow shafts
that ache for air, a subtle iridescence
in slanted light; these things might speak
for me in truth and tenderness.
And then the sky would drop
a silken curtain, miles of sapphire

unfurled. Strong and fluent,
I would convey, at last, a pureness
of heart untainted by a single word.

keeper

Sister has taken the lower faux branch
this morning. I admire the delicate curve
of her pink feet, how she perches like a quetzal.
But we are drab, the two of us, ladybirds
with dun feathers and no mysteries caught
under our folded wings. I catch Mildred’s eye
in the mirror with the dangling silver bell,

give cheep of hello and a little nod.
She is in her dreamy mood, trying to forget
the slender bars that contain us. I give the bell
a tap with my orange beak, but it is difficult
to distract her from her yearning.
There is a fresh scoop of seeds in the glass
dish. I sing my thanks. Poor sister,

she cannot give up the sky. Her song
is lost, her eyes always hungry, searching.
I will take her a plump sunflower seed
and smooth the feathers on her head.
There is nowhere for us in that bright
unbounded world. We are safe here,
my brown wing soft across her back.