MAYA JACYSZYN
Prayer of the Fledgling
Dear God,
I’ve never questioned your love or grace
as their light lays me in a nest of
lint and clovers, while Mama Bird sings the Sun’s hymn,
but I do question your timing and the tick tocks
of a chick that was born of mockingbird Cupids
with a lack of patience and breadth of desire.
My belly rumbles as Mama feeds me her game, but
I’m thirsty too, because it hasn’t rained in weeks.
Mama doesn’t feed my brothers and sisters the same;
with me smaller than the rest, I have to wait, while she
nourishes them with ribbon worms—lively and sweet—
and I’m fed lonely seeds from the pavement folds. Mama
mistook a pebble for one this time, and it chipped my beak.
God, I do not question your love and grace, but I pray
for the wings to leave this home.