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.

 

A Swansong for Jealousy by S. Alexandra Singh