The robin flew at the window
for days, seeking entrance
against the seamless pane,
wingtips like two clutches
of dry paintbrushes. The twig-thin,
twig-strong claws combed glass
as wings and breast sounded
an insistent knocking
we listened to in every room
except the basement
where my sister slept
in a drug-heavy sleep.
My father drew the blinds, taped
gilded wrapping paper over the pane,
but the fist-sized chest, furrowed
in seams of deeper, dull red,
beat out a refrain in the days
we waited and traced
the possibilities that branched
out of the dark knot inside
her left breast.
The robin would not stop
its brute attempts at egress,
kept thrusting its frantic chest
at the glass as if pressing
the rusted badge of the males
of its species into a slide,
a plate to be read. My father,
when he spoke of it, always
said she. He spoke always to,
but never of me.
Image Credit: Wikipedia / Francis C. Franklin / CC-BY-SA-3.0
Maggie Queeney reads and writes in Chicago. Her recent work can be found in Copper Nickel, Pinwheel, Southern Poetry Review, The Southeast Review, and Handsome.
