At first, it was only a game of yellow and red,
a beak before the mouth,
a body in borrowed feathers,
and beneath the laughter, madness began to hatch.
Then came the chicks,
soft, blind, without direction.
She wrapped her whole love around them
like a wall of skin and fear.
But what grows must leave.
What grows wings
no longer belongs
to the hand that keeps it warm.
So she took back
what had never been hers.
Care became hunger,
love – ingestion.
