Lovers begin to mimic one another:
speaking each other’s words
so as to sound familiar,
the homage of imitation.
I’ve heard it for myself—
the hawk’s screech re-sounded through
the blue jay’s thinner throat;
he’s an amateur impersonator, only relaying
the sound of the message, not the spirit:
seizing, talons tearing up a carcass.
Trapped in the beak of remembrance,
I find myself drawing up the blinds,
talking to the day much like you did
when you still moved,
my voice full of sound—seizing—
but no spirit.
This article appears in November 2011.
