CALL ME BELOVED

I was born a happier mistake
than most. There aren’t any
unselfish motives, I’ve found,
for dragging children into this –
at least I started, born
from some kind of love.

Brown-headed cowbirds
engage in brood parasitism –
they lay doppelgänger eggs
in robin’s nests – chicks
grow ravenously, towering over
adoptive parents, demanding,
even shoving out siblings
wildly flailing – tumbling down,
while cowbird chicks cry
Who are you?
Who am I?

I feel broken. Cold, gawping out
like a shivering chick listening for
the beating of returning wings, but
unsure, am I the parasite? Unwelcomed
and outgrowing this nest – or am I
the mound of bones and feathers
interring into the tree roots, or

just me. Crying, now, for cowbirds –
for broken eggs and robin chicks –
for the robins, exhausted, determined
to feed those young – however alien –
however bottomless their hunger.

I’ve read the young cowbirds
still know their own calls, they
compare colors of feathers to find
their kind, gathering under the moon,
all answering some call inside,
asking Who are you?
Whose am I?