spring2015

Mark J. MitchellWild ParrotsThe parrot speaks Latin. His accentis Chinese, blending scholar and sailor.He drops verbs like sesame seeds.Still, you listen, lean in closefor each squawked word. He mightanswer your question. He has powers—Or so you’ve heard, and the powerof Latin to curse—those flat accentsordering fate. We all know the mightof that tongue. That’s why sailorsswear in words they learned closeto their cradles. Words are seeds.They know that. They know that seedssprout and evil can sprout and that powercan force the wild water to closeover them, sealing away their salty accents.They are a cautious lot, those sailors,afraid of what is and whatever mightcome to pass. That noisy parrot might—remember the parrot?—miscrack some seedbending his beak, then screech a poor sailoronto a broken rock where no poweris strong enough and the only accentto the air is salt, splashing too closeto his face. No. It is better to closethe cage, cover it. Allow the mightof deception to work. Let darkness accentthe day. Fill his box with white seedsso the bird can find them. Turn off power,shut the doors. Let all the sailors87