Two little white parakeets evacuate from my sister’s fingers and in their agitation they fly into the walls they are persistent little things — persistent in the flapping and their panic even after going splat and they search, frantically, for the loftiest, most remote corner of our living room Like the uneasy dance of a flame Kimberly’s eyes keep up with the parakeets, but her body is still she points her stony chin to them and waits and the little white parakeets keep searching for holes in the ceiling and she waits, watching still, with locked knees and dancing eyes and a stony chin The little white parakeets have tiny little wooden feet And after a while their feet search for something solid One parakeet rests, The other follows, And something firm and silvery flashes in Kimberly’s hand A little bird’s head pops out from a space between her fingers she extends its wing and it is tense and in her other hand she extends the arms of a barber’s scissor I watch her barber’s scissor glide through flight feathers The feathers disintegrate — They fall to the floor like dust from a window sill — and the bird is still When they escape her hand the little white parakeets resume their flapping, they see the lofty corners but the keep fucking falling and after a while their eyes search desperately for holes in the floor
