On feeding wingless birds

I am pregnant --

seeds of light

take shelter

in my womb

but I am infertile

as a winter’s dawn


by its cold sun.


I take my time

to feed birds

downtown --

but only the wingless

get to taste

the holy book of my

hidden womanhood.


I quiet my kindness in public

as if she were a naughty child.

Not allowed to cry,

my cheeks become

home to the fallen

and I always remind them:

if you have fallen it can only mean

one thing --

that you have been on top.


I feed the wingless birds

every other day

that I pass by

this street called life.

The homeless have learned my name

even though I am foreign

and a little too easy

to mispronounce.

Yes, I let them mispronounce me

as if I were less than a word

when I feed these unknowing birds

(but only the wingless, no exception.)


Not a soul has dared to ask me

why --

so I continue to keep it a secret

that weakness is the father

of my stillborn light.

Romanian poet

Last updated November 25, 2012