by Robert Levine

Created on: February 26, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

SUSTENANCE
Pearl Levine 1916-1987

Every winter morning you stepped out on the lawn
and spread seeds and crumbs for mourning doves
puffing their plumage against the cold
and starlings foraging, scraping
feet and bills on frost-crusted mud.

Then a child appeared: your son's,
abandoned in hat and mittens
among the crows hacking their beaks
into mice's sides. You brought him into your house,
and fed him from your hand
like a crippled sparrow-
cinnamon rolls releasing in his belly
the warmth you baked into them.

He never repaid you, he never spooned oatmeal
or applesauce into your upraised face,
shriveled and disheveled as
a newborn chick's. He was still a child
when your lungs flooded with blood
as you lay on a table chest carved open.

But he believes you still need him,
and he invites you to fly down
on featherless wings,
and savor this morsel of your memory
that he draws from the base of his being
and raises to your invisible lips.

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