By Karen Lee Lewis
I recognize the scowl on the face of the Mockingbird –
it is my father's disapproving glare staring back at me
under gray feathers. Such a ready likeness
in its haughty posture that I listen a little deeper,
understand more clearly his many tongued rebukes.
My choir master. My moon mocker.
He didn't know that there was music inside of me.
So I took up lessons with the field and the brook.
Held in my hands an accordion book
that taught me to reseed the landscape of ridicule.
Some days he was all echo and flash;
on fewer days a bassoon in love.
Lord of lesser birds, you plagiarize my memory.