By Stephen Ira
I sang all night for you, but you didn’t care. You were too sad. Little bird, I said to myself, you can’t bring anybody back, but maybe you can keep him here. I thought you liked my song. But I couldn’t tell now. You looked angry, but you stayed in the room where I sang. I inherited the song. Not from my parents. Not from my grandmother. My grandfather doesn’t sing. My song was mine and I thought you liked it. I thought you loved me. Now you showed no sign of loving anything. But you stayed in the room all night. The room was full of statues with coins under their tongues. I felt bad for building them. Some don’t even have names. Sylvia, Ian, Anne, Emily, Seb. You barely moved. Sometimes, you moved. Little bird, I told myself, little bird, pretending I was you, I love you. Please sing for me. I didn’t want you to leave. I kept singing.