too soon?

It was the day after I accidentally killed a mockingbird—

(that’s not a metaphor, that’s a fact)

when we saw another mockingbird in the yard.

Up until this point, we’d openly talked

about the mate or eggs or chicks waiting

for the bird I killed.

But now we were face to face,

and it was hopping around too close,

looking around too intently,

calling out in every direction.

Part of me, a part I’ve always had,

wanted to crack a joke

about Harper Lee and Scout and Boo Radley.

Get it? To Kill a Mockingbird.

It’s like I killed an innocent man.

For you, this joke will always be “too soon”

’cause it’s about a hurt animal.

But if I did, you’d go somber:

“I've met men like that. There’s no book

that could explain it.”

And I would be pulled in,

like a child still awake, hearing

a new bedtime story—one I’ve never heard—

one you’ve been holding back.

But I stay silent. Don’t even mention

that it’s a mockingbird. You do.

Then ask me to look up

if they mate for life.

The internet says they can have

multiple males to a female—and vice versa.

The ol’ switcheroo.

You say, “Well it was 'till death

for one of them.”

You are satisfied with this answer.

I sense the possibility of a harem nest

in the trees outside the yard gives you peace.

You believe he isn't alone. Not really 

I don’t read aloud

that while they don’t mate for life,

they do sometimes stay monogamous

for a long time. Not life,

But a long time.

So I still watch him,

hopping around too close,

looking around too intently,

calling out in every direction—

like he is looking for someone.

As you've moved on.