Cecelia Hagen

Parakeet

The parakeet gripped our fingers and pecked
salt from our lips. 

Even though it hurt, we laughed and licked
the bit of blood.

When startled he perched on the curtain rod
or lamp shade to eye us

but allowed our hands to cup his wings and place him
back in his cage 

where he nodded off while we watched movies
introduced by a vampire 

who sat up in his coffin before he spoke. I slept
with a rosary 

around my neck so its crucifix would be within reach
if a real vampire tried 

to pierce my throat but old movies
didn’t scare me. 

Their soundtracks were slightly warped, as if the years
were a kind of water 

and damage had accrued. We were learning the art
of the knowing snort, 

bolstered by danger and the denial of danger. Commercials
came thick and fast, selling things 

adults would buy: mattresses, tires, uniforms for sailors
and those in charge of sailors.

On our street, police shot at Tommy and Mike when they ran
from a stolen car; 

a drunk driver flipped her car on a hot afternoon
and mocked the people

who ran to help just before she broke
into sobs. 

We knew that monsters were pieced together,
that monsters became unglued. 

While we sprawled on the sofa, an invisible force
was wrapping its hands around us.

When the squeeze became unbearable, we decided
to fly away.

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Cecelia Hagen is the author of the poetry book Entering (Airlie Press) and the chapbooks Among Others (Traprock Books) and Fringe Living (26 Books Press). Her poems have appeared in more than fifty periodicals, including New Ohio Review, Guesthouse, Zócalo Public Square, On the Seawall, High Desert Journal, EcoTheo and Zyzzyva. A four-time Pushcart Prize nominee, she has received fellowships and awards from Literary Arts, The MacDowell Colony, Playa and Soapstone. She lives in Eugene, Oregon, where she teaches writing and works on a program to encourage hunters to switch to lead-free ammunition.