On Reflection

Eight and a half months after I became a mother
a robin flew into the glass of my living room window, over and over, for almost a week
Maybe trying to kill himself
Or something he didn’t recognize as himself
Or something he recognized in himself
 
He sees his reflection, my husband said
 
Meanwhile inside
I cleaned the window
I closed the curtain
I put up a blanket
I finally sat, astonished
and listened to the not hard but not soft crashes at regular intervals
the frantic flutter of wings as he drew back, surprised, each time
 
That’s why they say “bird brains,” my husband said
 
Meanwhile inside
I recognized the bird
Slamming into something
Trying to shatter something
Trying to get through something