Shulamit speaks only of birds    

The warbler    pierced by an arrow in Mainz
who follows the beacon lodged in her breast
to the banks of the Oder               and brings 
with him warnings     of stinkwood and iron    

A loud gasp for the jackdaws            as they 
circle mounds of corpse            at day’s end      
Whispers to say             A slip of the tongue    
and              the whole murder will loathe us     

She speaks of lories    who bicker in tropes    
the crowned eagles who sharped their claws      
on the spines of the Jews        Tonight I find 
her cold and alone in the street     whistling

like a bird    Dearest daughter    she calls me 
Don’t rely on the thrushes          whose song 
always changes   Don’t be at ease       watch 
the starlings       their shape       ever-shifting 

ξ

What I can tell you about the baby

Despite what you have heard, he is not 
made from mud, nor is he a divine monster or 

the homunculus, fully formed in the seed. He is not 
a root pulled from dirt, though when pulled

from my body, he screamed like a mandrake 
He is not a metaphor for the creator, not thought 

perfected or pearled in a spell, not holy equation; 
his sum equals less than you’d think. His screams 

may annoy, but they are not ancient songs that unsettle 
the birds, make them clatter and thrash and startle 

the sculptor next door as he drapes a thin veil 
of skin on a small cage of bone

ξ

Maria Dylan Himmelman has work appearing or forthcoming in Grist, Antioch Review, Western Humanities Review, New Ohio Review, and DIAGRAM, among others. She lives in New York City.