Now that their bodies hurt, they listen
from their bedroom window
to the goldfinch song—
sweet repetition, it sounds
like po-ta-to-chip with a very
even cadence.
Wild canaries, says Pa.
They must be feeding
on thistle seed, says Mom.
My younger brother sleeps
facing the wall, in the room
across from them. Every night,
they lift him to his bed, change
his diaper, tuck the blue quilt
with green squares
around his fetal bend.
After forty-two years, there is still
that awkward moment
when he wets their hands
with his warm piss. He is music
without words. Still, I ask—
When will it be time
to find him a different home?
My father looks out across the dense
thicket of invasive species:
prickly-winged stems, bright
purple flowerheads,
releasing into the wind.
We love the birds so much, Pa says.
Wild canaries, Mom says.
Their bristle-like spines shine
in the moonlight. My brother
sings in his sleep.