Kristy Bowen

in the bird museum

It's all glassy eyes
and glued feathers.
Canned song leaking
from the speakers
and up the stairs
to where we sleep.

By definition, my mother
has beautiful hands.
By definition, an excellent
range of octaves.

Even her washcloths taste
clean and damp and faintly
like soap. Even our zippers go
up and down without snagging.

My sister breaks a parakeet
in half and it unravels like a spool
of twine in her hands. Dissolves
into springs and cotton batting.

The song is a trick of logic.
Of the ear. We'll wrap it
carefully in yellow dishtowels.
Pray for a shovel.