A Swan Song for Jealousy

my mother always kept parrots
their wrought iron cage
curves up round like a qubba,
its bars eaten by rust ""
an oceanside curse.

tropical plumage and searching eyes
they were beautiful,
yet forgotten.

avian decoration
for all purposes, winged automatons ""
purely ornamental.
spirits of freedom packed into feathered vests
relegated to the life
of singing sculptures.

but why did she forget?

this swell in my chest ""
the urge to possess,

when what we love
is wildness ""
lost to us through capture.

caged wings are of no consequence.
feathers only impress
as they are shooting through the canopy.

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