Of All the Birds I Love the Least

The pelican is thought 
unusual for the way it clasps 
food with its feet and dips it
in water before eating; 

for the sound it makes as it drinks, 
which is like a donkey braying. 
Most medieval bestiaries 
tell of the way it cares 

for its young, who as they grow
louder and stronger, turn against it. 
But even the most saintly reach 
a limit— one too many bouts 

of aggressive pecking, and 
the parent snaps. The story doesn't
say exactly how the lethal wounds
are inflicted on the young. But 

on the gilded page, the artist shows 
the mother frantically gouging out 
her breast with her own beak; drops 
of her blood fall on the fallen, 

and they rise again, miraculous, 
rejuvenated. Since the theme of virtue 
in self-sacrifice is re-established, 
the story doesn't see fit to continue 

past the moment of instruction. But
what happened then? Were they finally 
satisfied? Did the new lease on life 
extend to all? No caladrius painted

among the vines, steady gaze ready
to take on the malady. No mention of who
dressed the mother-wounds and helped 
her heal. No calculus of what it cost.