Every Word Bitter
by Patricia Russo
It isn’t a bird
perched on top
of the square fence post.
It’s too still
and too dark.
It’s a shadow
or a ghost.
But he doesn’t believe me,
just as he never believes
any fact I tell him
from before he was born
which makes every word bitter.
It’s not a bird, I say, bitterly,
but I don’t hold him back
when he runs straight at the post,
trying to make a shadow fly.