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.