Two Birds

See here; there's always a story of two birds. 
One of them's bound to another; the other, too, 
though secretly. I have two of them that I keep 
in a miniature house. They eat little 
squares of bread dipped in too-sweet 
coffee, skewers of meat grilled over a fire. 
In the afternoons they unfold pattern paper,
bright bits of cotton and silk. I watch 
as they twirl in front of a long cheval 
mirror, or pace each other while pawing 
the floor. One does up her hair with pins 
and flowers. The other sobs into the soup. 
Guess whose mouth prismed with glass. Guess 
whose wings were pinned in a room where sewing 
needles flashed. The first time you lay beneath 
someone you thought you heard the crumple 
of wings, felt the scalding on your tongue. 

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