Parroting

There is a picture of a parrot but no bird.

It is hard to reassure Joanne that the things we miss return.

I listen as air pushes past cartilage to fill empty space. My lungs are heavy.

Hands shake, sweat grows on face.

I imagine outside where Peter must be.

Can he even fly? Project his body in the sky?

For a bird with cut wings, there’s so much at stake.

Things I didn’t eat today:

pizza, softener, hard boiled egg, Dali’s mustache, a personal best. 

Aluminum. 

Four hard boiled eggs.

And a bird cage.

Now laying on your bed, stomach to mattress

I try not to look at my reflection.

Phone light casts a strange glow. 

I need to get toilet paper but don’t want to go anywhere.

I listen to birds outside. 

On a sulky summer afternoon steam rises from stove-top bolognaise.

Lorikeets riot in the gold of the golden hour.

Drifted to dozing by the dryer’s crease-free hum.

Another dead plant with my name on it. 

As per Lydia Davis, let’s construct a dog

from the hair we find between couches.

^{Footnote: this poem was co-written with the Red Room Poetry team created using the Between-the-action constraint as the starting point.}