I hear him, I listen, he whispers
things other children don’t know how to know
strange words about wings and dreams,
cages
feathers, freedom
death
I see him staring with those eyes
wondering
making me wonder
how soon she’ll die
a frightening thought
because if it is soon
and if I wish or, even worse, pray
that it will happen
then his freedom is granted
only as her deathbed way of imagining
that she can buy a ticket to enter heaven
with that one good deed
all will be meaningless for me
if I lose
my own good sense
my kindness
my God
The other day he recited words so completely new
that I understood the verse
was his own
not borrowed, memorized,
begged from the godmother’s books
Soaring
he said
Spirit
he whispered
Imprisoned
he murmured
and then he went on
I only caught a few fragments
of his rhyme of delight,
something about a golden beak
something about singing
and wishes
and hope