I used to take my brother to the zoo on Sundays,
stand on the narrow footpath in the Scripps Aviary,

my head turned up to thick-billed parrots and blue-bellied
rollers as they scavenged for nests and sang for love,

while he’d sit in his wheelchair, skinny arms tense
with excitement, his voice mixed with the rush

of river, that flood of music like blood.
His bellow of belonging never understood

by passersby, but the birds listened,
talked back, even, and in that wild place,

I could almost touch his language—
metallic and alive.