|
A parrot has joined us for dinner, his feathers meticulous,
his red tail smoothed, though the overhead fan makes that scarlet move in a rhythm like dancing.
He is urbane, his conversation witty, as if we're in a movie,
I think, supposing all his lines rehearsed. But they are neither rote nor imitation.
He's a philosopher, his ideas are original. My mother is charmed, and my sister.
Even my brothers smile at his jokes. I say, "I'll bet you've had better meals than this."
He raises one emerald wing to call a waiter, laughs, swallowing a mouthful of foie gras before
admitting yes, he has, but never found the company more attractive. He turns his golden eyes on me.
I feel the colors of him rippling rainbows in my blood. The family predictably frowns No.
But if I cannot have him, I'd rather spend a lifetime yearning than settle in with arms,
smooth flesh, fingers not unlike my own.
|
