We rarely see him anymore
but we hear that she punishes him
two or three times each week
There are rumors of insanity
hers or his.
Always hungry, the whisperers say
a child forced to hide under the table
to find a few scraps, just like a stray dog.
If only he were a stray,
then I could find him and feed him,
my son.
A broken nose from the beatings.
No more golden beak.
A silenced voice.
Or so they imagine.
I know it’s not true.
I can hear him singing.
That music of words.
The fluttering wings
Trapped.