Swan Song
I was sixteen when the finch stopped singing.
The sweet melody suddenly transformed
as if it was cracked like a broken bell.
I couldn’t hear the sweet song anymore.
My father bottled my ink in dirty jars.
He locked my pens in the darkest corner
of the birch box cut from a tree outside.
Maybe it was where the bird sang to me
He told me to go outside like other boys.
But I didn’t seem to listen.
I could still hear a finch singing.
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