The Parrot Child

. . . performs! Cocking her head,
she repeats her catechism perfectly.
Standing erect, her wing bones jutting,
she wins the spelling bees.
It’s a breeze.
Inside she’s hollow:
the letters echo forth
     (and echo forth)
           with ease.

This child is mother’s pet:
what more could mother ask?
Pledges allegiance,
rattles off her rosary,
sleeps long hours under the family pall.
Oh she’s cute, in a gawky way.
Flighty, too!—
would “lose her head if it wasn’t attached,”
tends to scratch the paper casings off her crayons,
leaving nasty droppings on the living room floor.

She’s good company withal.
Her green exotic eyes reflect her mother’s every move.
After school, perched on the couch,
they watch the game shows,
clucking at wrong answers,
chirping in delight
when one of them gets it right!
Her spark is ember-dim, her soul in coma.
She sounds her little scripts like a broken record,
     -ken record,
            -ken record:

such a bright, bright child, they say,
such a darling thing!
They think she’ll grow into the ideal woman,
mimicking her professors,
mirroring the needs of spouse and boss.

But there’s a chink in their theories.

One day she’ll go from memorizing the catechism
to memorizing poems.
Then it will be inevitable.
She’ll see things new.
She’ll renounce the parrot’s truth for the poet’s truth
and the cooped up wisdom of thirty years will come
      geysering
            geysering
                  forth
from the unkillable well, the shrewd root.