When He Receives Orders to Afghanistan and a Parking Ticket: How to Respond

What you say matters,
each word tagged
and monitored
like an eaglet.
Make your voice
a small bird,
the kind he can hold
in the palm of his hand:
chickadee, sparrow, canary.
Use words that behave
in the corridors of memory.
Don’t say Fuck.
Don’t be a blue jay.
Don’t crack your head
on the window
or rifle through his duffel.
Don’t ask where he parked.
When he hands you
the ticket, its charges
printed in dark red script,
let the checkbook
fly from your purse
like a finch.
Post payment immediately
and sing, sing, sing.
Don’t hoard bits of paper,
don’t shred his orders.
Don’t bark, don’t pick.
You are not a magpie,
you are not a crow.
Your voice is a long, sweet song.
Build a nest on his shoulder
and rest your head there.
Fill his ears with feathers
so downy and slight
they can fill a canal
and never weigh more
than an ounce.