I stand in my room and observe your little
spotted belly facing up, your
delicate wings limp and hanging
awkwardly upside down.
I think of when I found you at Scott’s Pet Shop in a row of
little plastic cups. You were a purple streak,
looking mighty and beautiful…
I adored you until you became a chore. The cat used to
stare, but even she’s lost interest in everything
but stretching out on the bed in a little patch of sunshine.
My head hangs and I begin to pace, a little procession for you.
Guilty, I trudge to the living room with your bowl
where my dad is watching the news. He looks over
and I simply raise the vessel. Some stinky
water swishes out and your body moves,
but nothing like before.
We go out to the backyard and he digs a hole before standing back.
I pour you out into the little grave and the sound of your skin
smacking onto the dirt is quiet, but gruesome.
I focus on your still-shining eye,
wide open like you’re surprised at this fate.
Dad pushes some dirt back over the spot.
I look up and he says “Amen”, tossing
the shovel aside and heading back into the house.
The sky is that green-gray like before a storm
And I stay there a little too long.
I feel a rush of wind against my back, and the
empty bowl feels heavy in my hand.
