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.