I’m a penguin, birthing outside myself, racing
down a glacier. My flippers behind the wheel
of a fastback Mustang in a rainstorm.
Sometimes I find comfort in the weather,
shaped like a gourd and web-toed. I unname him,
my father who cursed us all. Instead, I name mud pies.
I mix the grit with melting snow and bake them
in the sun, the rich organic churn and worms rotting
as they warm. I don’t regret the unsaid
or the disgrace I release. I wake unafraid
the morning after each of my children is born.
Penguins aren’t starfish; limbs gone never return.
My nest becomes unclutched.
What I accomplished is tremendous.
Copyright © 2025 by Trish Hopkinson. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 17, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
