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June 21, 2012

She chooses nest materials as I
would a rug, examines fiber length,
feels it against her orange beak and then,
a dropped bomb in reverse, plunges into
the green, her red protector trailing her.
Noticing my notice, he wings away,
but she, courageous in intent, just bends
and sorts, leaning her head against the air
in approval, and then—and of course, that’s
how it’s done!—she sinks, twists, warrens into
it, her own soft shape shaping it until
she is the nest herself against heaven,
field yellow, sky grey, cove cover secret
in leaves. And I think, could I do the same?
Basket myself in what flush fibers were
available—garden chives and parsley,
roadside rushes and recyclables,
garlands of parkside litter—and then lie
unseen, safe, one with beauty and nature,
stillness—I am Beauty, Nature, Stillness!—
until, beneath me, I felt movements of
family, monstrous mouths open so wide
I see deep past their tongues, their lungs? Their rage
suffocates me. I fly off and return
again again again to stop it with
bugs, berries, and what else I see. I am
Creator, Builder, Warmth, and yet unloved
from that broken moment of freedom but
for my mystical power to stuff the spear-
tipped mouths with every goodness I can find.


From → Trashword Poems

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