On feeding wingless birds

I am pregnant --

seeds of light

take shelter

in my womb


but I am infertile

as a winter’s dawn

heartbroken

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.