The Gift

You can tell whether a bird has a mate

if there are pinfeathers on its head, new feathers

that start out as stubs full of blood, then enshroud

themselves in a white, scaly coat as they grow.

Preening releases the feather, but a bird can't reach

the top of its own head. A mate preens that spot

unless the bird is alone in a cage. Pinfeathers itch

so I preen my unpaired birds: wrap them in a towel,

scritch their heads and blow till dandruffy stuff

flutters out. They looked pretty mangy this morning,

I recall, as I stare at the side of my mother's face

from the backseat. How long has it been since I

took her in for a haircut? And her whiskers—she can't

see to shave. We're driving back roads, pointing out

deer and hawks as she ahs, before taking her back

to her apartment. Collin calls it "traveling gravel."

She loves it when he drives and I sit in the back

so she can talk as much as she wants. He always

answers her questions. Sometimes I'll go hours

without saying a word while she talks and talks.

When I was little, she'd bring a book to restaurants

and read while I, no doubt, talked and talked. Things

children said weren't interesting to her, she told me,

and family never had to say, "I'm sorry." Yes,

we've hurt each other, but only I've done it

on purpose. Did I tell you she bought me this car?

It's the most generous gifts I've ever received.

Source: Crushing It (Copper Canyon Press, 2020)