A bird is perched on my left index finger.
She tweets here and there,
Sometimes she is pleasant,
Other times she tears my soul in two.
She has been waiting, patiently,
For 16 years she has been waiting.
I need to release my song and listen to hers.
She seldom sings because I muffle her,
So that I don't hear the sadness,
The begging for attention.
She stays perched on my left index finger,
She always will be.
She will be singing and I will know the tune.
This is about my mama. She died when I was 2 and to this day I have never written about her because I have not been mentally able to do so. In this piece, I am discussing the full acceptance of what happened to her and how it has shaped my life. I have no memory of her, just pictures. I have a sense of recognition when I see these pictures but that is it. I have no memory of her. I hope that soon I will be able to write something directly about her, for this poem merely flirts with the idea. I think it will help. Thank you for reading.