baby robins

they hatched this week. 
shells still at their feet. a nest of
trash & twigs & a strand of hair. 
their mouths open up 
as if to ask, "can i have the sun?"
i tell them, "will you take me with you?"
their eyes are still closed 
& i see the three little nestlings
as portals into the egg world.
maybe they could swallow me
& i could sleep there in the muffled yolk. 
i am so tired of trying to find nectar.
a place to sleep with fireflies. 
we don't stare at the moon anymore.
i don't know where my life went
& if i am the one who took it. 
i wake up with the dread of a future
in which i do not learn how to feed myself.
when i pass the birds i want to become
the nest. hold them in my hands.
walk towards the road & hitch
a ride to the oldest place. there i can lay down
& wait to grow feathers. the birds' down 
comes in patches. their mother waits
in the driveway while i pass by. i crouch down.
i say, "look, i can be small too." i used to be 
seventeen touring colleges in the snow.
i used to live in a big city with lots of guns.
if we lose the house
i do not know where will hold my sorrow
like this land has. who will talk
to the well spirits & who will come
& harvest the nest when it is done?
i collect them in a dark cool drawer.
only two. i lay down inside them.
sometimes the ghost nestlings will join me. 
they'll beg, "please never leave." i am a collection of 
of leaving. the breadcrumbs eaten behind me.
there is no going back. soon the birds will fly.
the nest will fall like a discarded sunday hat. 
i won't grow feathers. i'll open the window
& the air will smell different & i will
start over again with trying to find 
a place to hold me.