To the Parrot Whose Eyes Follow Me
Darling, why do you look at me so?
Is the orange sliced just wrong, angular and harsh
like the knuckles of my aged hands?
Is the scenery I’ve constructed here too bright for you--
is it the sky-blue backdrop, the kiwi, perhaps the grapefruit?
Does the plum’s purple triumph dazzle you, stun you almost?
Do you yearn to be the most vibrant subject in the room, always?
Have you learned too much from me, and that’s why
you’re never satisfied? Because the melon reminds me of my
grandmother, seven thousand miles and eight years tucked
away. I never eat the melon, simply pick at the seeds until only
craters are left behind.
You help me with this endeavor, despite not knowing anything
I’m saying as I whisper to you my thank you’s. Like a weary friend,
you perch there and listen, staring with eyes as beaded and dark
as the melon’s seeds.
My dearest parrot, tell me: have I not listened to you enough?
Have I let our relationship rot, caged your joy, let your love slip,
kept you away
from your family?
Remember, if I cut you fruit, you are my family—like it or not.
Ashley Wang (she/her) is a Chinese American writer currently living in Houston, TX and studying creative writing at Rice University. She is a poetry section editor for R2: The Rice Review. She participates in National Poetry Writing Month each year and likes to use it as a disjointed journal of sorts. Her work is forthcoming in Stone of Madness Press and Eunoia Review."
The Ekphrastic Review
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