Fledgeling

by Brandon McQuade

I dream in the bed you were conceived
of the barn swallows outside our door
their precarious nest-cup hanging from the corner
a handful of mud and sticks in the beams.

Inside, eggs are hatching
the chicks are finding themselves
their eyes and legs coming down to earth
like the post-coital search for clothes and towel.

I realize, with my ear against her navel
listening to your mother like the mouth of a seashell
that the moment I cut the umbilical cord
my hands are forever responsible for your separation—

your hand and mouth will reach for your mother’s breast
as the fledgling foot escapes the nest.

About octoberprojectmusic

Julie Flanders Marina Belica Emil Adler
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