A parrot will pluck
its feathers clean off—
stand naked in the cage—
yap, imitate strangers,
warble madly,
call out to visitors and
perch in full view of the
skin that hangs on its
prehistoric shape.
The vet will not know
why the parrot
chews itself, mutilates
the feather’s knotty calamus,
draws blood sharp stains
over its skin, until
it lets go, and
falls to the bottom
of the cage, among paper.
The doctors will say
depression—
or maybe she
won’t eat because she is
distressed, you know—
eleven is a hard age,
for a girl—
but they will admit
in private that nobody knows
exactly why she has trained
her body to abandon itself.
