You were everyone’s mama robin, cracking
a warm egg over the fledglings in the neighborhood.

I could not move without brushing against the wings
of your adopted flock,

even as I squawked for the nest to empty.

After all, shouldn’t blood paint your red breast
without the stretch of hungry necks?

This maternal clutching, this
communal roosting, is how I found myself

sniped and unfeathered,

watching mama robin cooing and mama robin chirring
and mama robin loving all the birds.


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