THE ROBIN

my mother wanted me to be a girl
more so than either of my brothers
as i was the to be the third-born
and the artist
and this is the way it has been for centuries
and it was written in the stars
that i would be her daughter, herself a girl
a beautiful hand-painted wooden cup of a girl
destined to be lifted up myself
only to reveal another
as an infinite chain of little wooden russian dolls
and she would be gifted
and creative
and write poetry
and oh, how beautiful to someday find the words
sparked from a mind she made herself
the words all written on parchment, because she liked the smell
and common flowers kept between the pages
like dried, flattened promises
and she would be my mother all over again
a pattern in repeat
and it is said that your child is always more beautiful than you
as god would have it, a gift
so someday everyone will be perfect
no eyes set low, or far too close
and maybe this girl
whose name was picked out, but never told to me
would be the beginning of it all
the most beautiful girl on earth
and she would wear a sundress
would throw your heart against a trampoline
and she would smile, and promise nothing

but she would have to make it out first
and she never would, and neither will i
because i am not that girl
and i am not that promise
and i am not that answer
and i am not that
bright
red-breasted
son-of-a-bitch
of a
bird