Auntie favored the paradox of captivity.
She liked when her macaw
scuttled across waxed mahogany
to share morsels of berries, peaches,
raisins she gripped with arthritic fingers
to place in a circle around him.

Who’s my baby?
Who’s my baby?
Whose mimicry was mimicry?

The rainforest rims in his starboard eyes,
his clicks in nuzzle and coo
between piles of pinyon shells,
their weekly pilgrimages
with an umbrella stroller
to talk and squawk
in the neighborhood park,
their subsong duet for attentive children.

Widow with her blue and gold—
their lifelines dampened the will to flock,
to ply the air—still
they beguiled each other
with slow swiveling sideswipes
of gaze, the way they’d dip their heads
below their bodies and
crane upward like movie cameras.
In cerulean and goldenrod
in gingham and lace
they met each other
for sustenance and magic
in vectors of birdcall and heartbeat.