The priest caught a bird
That could talk.
It would repeat anything
That came out of the mouth.
First, it could only imitate
The sound at the end.
Like, ‘Good Morning.’
Unaffected by fashion of the day.
The priest taught it the Our Father
as if cracking a grain of rice between the teeth.
Until, in time it could repeat
Any word it heard, whatever was said.
Once the priest prayed,
Eyes closed, silent –
And the bird looked down on him
The way a god in a cage would
While waiting to be imitated by his master.
