The bearded vulture is monogamous,
and lays two eggs: biological insurance.
The larger chick always, always
kills the younger, even
with an abundance of food,
easy water, good weather.
The blue-throated bee-eater,
the osprey, the white-bellied swiftlet—
the bonebreaker is not alone in its tragedy.
I gouged my sister’s name,
spelled wrong, into an oak cabinet,
pencil clenched in furtive fist.
An old photo shows me holding her,
a red-faced squall in my hands,
away from my body, recoiling,
as though forced to carry
an overripe, rotten plum.
I wanted my mother to return
this colicky creature in my space
with an echo of my face.
Then we received my brother—
the last, the only boy, beautiful
and blonde, ready smile, easy sleeper.
Always an uneven truce, shifting
alliances, two and one, one and two.
The elder birdling is obligated
to murder and has its choice:
hoard food and starve the weaker
into brittle-boned and broken shell,
evict the smaller from the nest,
tossing it like a cornhole bag
before it can survive the fall,
or take beak and claw to injure
the other birdchild so severely
it dies.
