My long-dead mother would have called it

omen. Each morning between 7 and 9,

the phoebe returns, white moon of her breast

pressed up against the triangle of glass

just below our bedroom ceiling.

A mad clatter at the window, the rusty wings

wigwagging their warning, orange cone

of her beak telegraphing its warning. Or summons.

The beaded yellow feet scrabble

for a way into our warm

conjugal bunker.

 

Which of us have you come for

then, small oracle, avenging angel?

Most mornings,

I'd rather it be me.