I’ve named the stray cat that tries to get at the canaries
El Destino. This last month I’ve been half cynic,
half television special. My mother, who still believes
improvised altars are lightning rods for a miracle,
says the humor—the good that has returned to me—
is grace, and sometimes I want to agree with her,
but who these days really remembers the definition
of grace, or every one of its definitions and then
each one’s reach and breadth? These years have not
been years made to be sure of anything. We wonder
if El Destino will forget the birds if we stop taking
the cage out to the yard. We both think it unlikely.
Just about everything now is in some way unrelenting,
and the birds are no good to anyone locked up inside.