the blue parakeet

your mother
used to sweat when she
cooked. there was
a blue parakeet
in a cage
hanging near
the unopened kitchen
window.
why don't you open
a window,
you'd say, it's hot
in here.
I don't want
the bird to catch
cold, she'd say.
they don't last
long, these
birds are fragile.
not like the old
birds in the old
days. this one
looks like the last
one, you tell
her, leaning over
a boiling pot
of pasta and meatballs.
this one has
a little green
in it's feathers,
she says,
stirring the pot.
how come you don't
visit more, she says.
you never come over
anymore. no one does.
I'm here now, you
tell her. she wipes
her brow with a
dish towel, tears
or sweat are rolling
down her cheeks.
what's the name of
your bird, you ask,
changing the subject.
I don't give them
names anymore, she
says. they don't stay
around long enough
to have names. I hope
your hungry. I made
a lot.