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My mother is losing her memory
after losing much else.
For weeks, between trips back
and forth from the city
we’ve watched phoebes
feed babies in the nest
on top of the porch light.
Back, I check again.
The chicks are still here
and parents working non-stop,
tyrannized by cheeps:
I want. I want more.
Morning. Mother phoebe gives
flying lessons: Watch me.
Look how easy. Just put your wings
together and flap. Then, before
my eyes, one stands on the edge,
a diver getting ready, and flies
into the trees where parents
follow in an instant. I call out
to my husband, and we see the second
take off. This feels nothing-to-it
and miraculous. Now, I worry
over the runt left behind, unfed,
its peeps unanswered.
Abandonment is nature’s way,
I know. But my mind
is busy with menus --
wasps and worms, chopped fine.
Why hasn’t my husband thought of this?
He has, when he was seven,
I’m back to sad. Bird down.
My mother down. He hopes I won’t
go over the top again. I won’t.
In the shower, I think my mother
might be less afraid without memory,
think this business with birds
might not be over. I dress quickly.
While he’s watering the garden,
I check the nest. The bird
is gone!
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