Hard Shell

This world is cruel,

the robin’s blue egg in your soft palm knows this best.

a hard shell, a mother who cares, her

baby knowing more about the world than her,

a lost egg, blue and cracked for dinner in a hungry world

gripping at crumbs that won’t do any good,

won’t stop our rumblings for what we are willing to tear apart

small spring beast of a songbird, safe only

in your hand, too fragile in mine,

any force and you’ll be too early to arrive in this world,

a place like this and our indifference

for all the things we’re scared to lose

my own chirping heart, greedy and blue

under phone lines your mother must be singing on at

an off hour this morning

I open my windows to hear her when I can’t sleep, when the phone lines are silent

and you are not humming to me about a cruel and terrible world

the lilacs are blooming this time of year, but what a quiet place

when we are done laughing in our homes

blazing and bright with fires we must’ve seen coming from a mile away

In thirteen days, on some early morning, if you stay warm and survive today,

when the plum-rounded buds drop their heads and bloom, some spring morning

air thick and draped over my sleeping shoulders,

some dusty morning, clouds heavy for relief,

this tiny robin will use its beak like a hammer

to the world, you’ll go far enough if you can just break through,

and we’ll wake to an ugly world and a

baby bird born clueless and singing