Year of the Cowbird
by Pat Hull
We were born
in the year of the cowbird,
each of us not like the other,
mouths desperately reaching
toward the love of a stranger –
Her breasts an off colour,
her language, a melody
of inimitable trills.
Our real mother dropped us
off, unborn, in the lobby
before hurrying down
to the racetrack, disguised
in a sun-hat and glasses,
betting on which dog
would finish last.
When we were old enough
to fly off on our own,
we found her below us
perched on an air conditioner;
We circled above, singing
the cowbird anthem in a cold breeze –
She looked up, then back down
nuzzling further into herself.
in the year of the cowbird,
each of us not like the other,
mouths desperately reaching
toward the love of a stranger –
Her breasts an off colour,
her language, a melody
of inimitable trills.
Our real mother dropped us
off, unborn, in the lobby
before hurrying down
to the racetrack, disguised
in a sun-hat and glasses,
betting on which dog
would finish last.
When we were old enough
to fly off on our own,
we found her below us
perched on an air conditioner;
We circled above, singing
the cowbird anthem in a cold breeze –
She looked up, then back down
nuzzling further into herself.
Thoughts
by Pat Hull
Before my thoughts
turned on me,
they turned me on –
and that thought
keeps my sail up
in a surrender to
the ever-changing
winds blowing
without a beginning,
middle, or end,
carrying smells
of rain and dirt
into my baby’s hair,
which calms my nerves
each night as I drift
off to sleep, inhaling
her nest that also traps
my out-breath
of tangled carbon,
which she brushes
out straight
in the morning.
turned on me,
they turned me on –
and that thought
keeps my sail up
in a surrender to
the ever-changing
winds blowing
without a beginning,
middle, or end,
carrying smells
of rain and dirt
into my baby’s hair,
which calms my nerves
each night as I drift
off to sleep, inhaling
her nest that also traps
my out-breath
of tangled carbon,
which she brushes
out straight
in the morning.