My Parrot Has Died

By MIGUEL-ANGEL ZAPATA

 

My parrot has died in a clinic in Huntington. His life was a miracle
He was the envy of all the birds in the neighborhood. For five
years he sang a piece by Boccherini and knew a couple Mexican
pop songs by heart. When he got excited he whistled at the girls who
passed by my house.

When he was happy, the house was a joy. His harmonious whistling
infected with happiness the jealous parakeets in the other cage. Better I’d
been a canary, he would tell me: death is a lullaby beneath
a tremendous poplar that protects us. The poplar likes its family, and lets
fall its leaves like bloody money
. It is an enormous sky from
where they can see the waterfalls, the wings of the birds that return to see
water at the source.

Today I’m sad. My parrot was a piece of heaven in a world of fear.
Translated by Loren Goodman

 

Miguel-Angel Zapata books include Lumbre de la letra, Escribir bajo el polvo, El cielo que me escribe, Cuervos, Los muslos sobre la grama, the bilingual A Sparrow in the House of Seven Patios, and Fragmentos de una manzana y otros poemas.

Loren Goodman is the author of Famous Americans, Suppository Writing, and New Products.

Click here to purchase Issue 03

My Parrot Has Died

Related Posts

Top-down view of bouquets of various flowers, presumably for sale at a market.

Translation: Poems by Mireille Gansel

MIREILLE GANSEL
this morning while I was going to the docks looking for summer's last flowers at the florist's suddenly the look of this young boy with his mother her head scarf knotted like the Romani women who had offered us hospitality he and she hurrying both of them grasping black bags

Washington Heights

November 2022 Poetry Feature: Anacaona Rocio Milagro

ANACAONA ROCIO MILAGRO
Because there weren’t any fireflies in the hood / as a child i imagined roaches were angels on a / mission. To save lives, they’d crawl into the mouths / of the chosen. Initially i found them disgusting. / They’d infest my Fruity Pebbles cereal. i’d pluck / them out

Image of the moon. Camera is focused on the moon against a pitch black background.

Klan Giant

TOMMYE BLOUNT
Look up here, the air is Aryan. The moon, / our white hood. Our life must loom large / above that which is darkened in our shadow. / A fate loomed long ago, ours // in the weft and warp of hems, / a lowered white curtain on this / re-coonstructed show