S U N D A Y

Because My Parents Got Married In Mony’s Kitchen

Sometimes, when my roommate, Grace, gets bored—
she turns on her rape whistle and throws it
down the hall.

The only reason I think of that now—as
my mother rides in the quiet of her white
Granprix thinking of nothing but iPhones
and wedding rings—

is because I am sitting in the church parking lot,
refusing to go in, thinking about my father—
and wondering how he lost his scruples
in a war in which he never fought—

and there are all these birds.
Specifically one bird, who sounds an awful
lot like a rape whistle.

And I think that ironic, since birds can fly.

The second bird sounds like
a semiautomatic machine gun:
the kind my father would use in the war
he never fought in, where he would lose his scruples—

the kind my mother would use to pepper
the feet of the woman who buttered
my father’s scruples and ate them on toast.

And, again, I think that ironic that a bird sound
so dangerous—since birds can fly.

And I find it ironic that I write this here,
in holy matrimony, on the day that my parents
prove nothing concocted hurriedly in a kitchen
is ever holy.

And birds are never anything but innocent.