On the Death of Mercutio

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.