BLUEBIRDS
The male, azure with cinnamon vest, points the way
to an abandoned woodpecker hole. The female weaves
a nest of pine needles, grass. The young,
naked, blind, demand food.
In the next room, the baby cries:
its diaper is wet.
A green worm in his bill, he waits in a nearby tree,
searches for danger, enters the hole. He leaves, carries
a fecal sac far from the nest.
The father turns up the volume.
The black snake shimmies up the tree,
parents peck and fuss; chickadees, nuthatches mob it.
Defeated, the snake retreats.
Shut that baby up.
She rouses from the couch.
I’ll give him something to cry about.
Feathered and sighted, the fledglings
peer from the hole. The father calls
to the young: fly.
the water, hot.
The female starts another nest.
the child screams.
Southern Women’s Review Jan 2012
