Nonna sat in a metal reclining chair
on the part of the beach
that gets hottest in the afternoon sun and my mom,

walking away from her,
said behind her shoulder as she left

Don’t feed the birds bread, Ma.

not seeing
my grandmother’s hand
already in the sandwich cooler
tearing off the pieces of bread that
she’d been planning to feed the birds
all day

 

Torn bits chucked
into a storm of seagull wings,
her euphoric laughter
flapping its feathers among them.

Her yelling:
They love me!
They love me!
They really love me!

My grandmother’s sun visor, her crown
The birds, her adoring audience.

What a cold warmth
cast by that transactional love.

It froze the shade
on the beach blanket
where I sat under our umbrella

Though I know what she yelled,
I heard her say

Here, your heart for this bread.

Now,
please
don’t fly away.

But they did just that.
They ate the last piece, and
they turned around.

They flew away.