Every little thing speaks him name
We see a gnawed wooden frame,
a torn up plastic sheet sticking out of the cupboard
the tattered remains of my son's artwork on the walls
and he is' there
his photo on my phone
an apple I bite into
the bloody open window
and he is there
a song on the radio that I sing to him everyday
the ukelele that we play for him to hop on,
ear to the hollow to figure out where the sound comes from
his cage, his water bowl, his seed bowl, a millet spray
and he's there, there and there
My room where they bawled their eyes out like never before
the altar, where I was praying, moments before he broke free
the curtain hooks, behind which he was hiding
a second before he flew out with a peep that faded away,
sucking away our hearts with one flap of his wings,
he's there
and here.
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