Chip-chip-cheree, the triumphant
call of a fruitful journey; mother
coos, mouth full, to her young.
Digesting is too hard for
my sister; she waits for the blender,
chirp-chirping as it chews
boiled chicken, baked
worms, and dried seeds.
Her small beak opens wide,
dark as a gulf; the mush slides
down her sinewy throat, dripping
into the synthetic funnel, falling
through the long sterile tube, sinking
to the place where skin meets plastic,
a river of food emptying into a gulf—
the umbilical cord she