Fall 1998
	Emily Fragos
	Mondays
	Every village has its lunatic, its talking parrot, its spot in the park where lovers lie between two trees.
	At the post office, there she is, pushing her carriage filled with garbage; her head, a poodle of ludicrous yellow curls.
	She tells her Bengali doctor: I don't know how long it's been out there on the lawn, but it's not dead yet.
	He looks back at her with liquid eyes and speaks in spurts which makes her nervous, makes her want to open her mouth, sing opera.
	She rushes from the clinic, through the park, sees the lovers sitting up, the round red blossoms, the ink black blossoms.
	At the veterinarian's, the parrot is being handed over for lung surgery and calls out: Come here. I love you. I want to go home.