In a family of so many brothers, you had
the misfortune to be born with two X
chromosomes—one brush stroke away
from Y. Your father wept when he saw
that your mother’s labor had produced only
a piece to be broken, like the tarsals in your
foot. Your spirit was weak. It could not be
reshaped to fit the world that likened you
to cowbirds. Some vengeful god must have
killed the boy in your mother’s womb
and planted you there instead. Now you
answer for some past life. You must count
yourself lucky you were not turned face down
in a plate of ash at birth, wet skin coated
in death like the phoenix. You could never
be a phoenix; cowbirds aren’t even scrub jays.
Instead, you and your six sisters were given
to someone—anyone who would take
even one of you. You were spread out across
the country, each of you, a piece of something
that would never come together. You would never
find each other. You would never find yourself.

About The Author

Devin Prasatek is a junior writing major at Grand Valley State University. Her writing centers around her interest in analyzing the concept of identity and how it shapes the world around us. Her main focus in writing has always been poetry, and she hopes to compose many more successful pieces in the future.

Contents

Human Scavenger

About The Author