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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