Julieta Roll

Birds like an unfolding orchid

Parrots on my balcony sang in the tune of an unfolding orchid. Yet, after
further inspection, I saw the birds were ceramic. More like puppets, my
neighbor tied them to the telephone wires to feel romantic. To feel like our
planet wasn’t dying.

I still enjoyed their mechanical songs! Porcelain notes floating through me
like a ray. I’ll tell my telephone not to ring so I can lounge by the light and
listen and until someone writes a letter. I’m always waiting for the mail.
Bent over in weeds reaching my hands to create a flower bed. They haven’t
sprouted yet. I’m timing them. I’ll take a picture of their birth to email to
my mother. She won’t respond. I’ll remind myself to lock the door. A
wooden door. I’ll try a windowsill flower bed. I’ll try cutting my fingers off.
I’ll try filling my drawers with apples. I’ll try baking. I’ll fail. I’ll reverse
myself. Only sleep at day.

Then, taking a supermarket egg, I’ll bury it in mud. Surely, I’ll have my own
parrot. Soon enough, I’m waiting. Digging for the mail, listening for birds.