Mother As Bird
No squawking. No blackbird’s frantic flapping,
no keeping close to the ground
to protect us in the field —
none of that
the predatory muskrat’s brown eyes might rise like two dark moons
in the tall grass and nothing.
I stopped talking to her through my skin …
On the living room couch, I might confuse her arms around me,
draped in a long-sleeved indigo silk blouse,
for bluebird wings, cradling me for those few moments.
When my older sister tied me to a chair with package twine
and taped my mouth —
no maternal outrage.
Bits of twine and field grass, the ravaged tape ripped
from my mouth which feathered the hidden nest
that we called home.
* * * * *
Red Tricycle
Reflections of clouds and trees
shone on its silver handlebars but only for a moment
before they’d slide away,
and others would roll over the rounded
chrome in delightfully distorted reflections — the first time
I felt my movement
through the world could change things.
Pushing the pedals, round and round
again and again, making circles
of air that I could feel in my legs.
these orbs would materialize, slip free
from the tricycle’s white plastic pedals
for children to play with.
And the cutting shrill of silver bell
hoping to clear the air of any harm.