Nest
NEST
I stop combing
my hair the day you start
unfurling. Coming
of age. I try to stop
the eruption. As if
the mess on my head
can contain the hurt
of your growth. Mirror the nests
you collected. The way your tiny
finger stretches toward the night
sky and the glow of red
neon. Your baby hand
pointing to the letter
E in the grocery
store sign and the nest
inside it. As if it were
a miracle. For over
a year we watch
the nest together until
a storm takes it. Leaves
it in strands of unremarkable
twigs in the parking lot.
Dislocated. From its
home. Your tears merge
with rain coming
down. You grow and we go
on walks and hikes. Finger
through branches. Carefully
pluck empty
nests from their
arms. The collection
builds. Dove nests and their fragile
lines drawn with blades
of dead weeds thrown
together. Haphazard.
We laugh when
I call them stupid. Say I would
never build a nest so
vulnerable. The cactus wren
is your favorite. The pack
rat of birds. Weaving cloth
and garbage into cocoons.
Your nests rest on indoor
plants. Mimic nature
insulated by air
conditioning and Dr. Seuss
books on shelves. They lean
against snow globes with
cityscapes and scorpions
inside. Because it does snow
in the desert. Nests
in the kitchen and in
the bedroom. The one
in my heart holding
you. They weave through
our lives. Count
years in twigs and lint.
Heat rises to triple
digits the day monsoon
sweeps in from the south. Kicks
a dozen bird eggs from the mesquite
in the yard. You cry
at the shattered
shells on the driveway.
Beaks of unborn
babies frozen
in time until 50 mph
winds and the flood
washes them away. Inside
the cat has drug
your favorite nest across the family
room rug. Torn
to shreds. Unraveled. You lock
yourself in your room and
scream. That’s when I stop
cutting and combing
my hair. Let it grow
wild. Freeform but tangled
tight as a nest as if it could
contain you. Keep
you safe. Stop
the pain of growing
up. Stop the nest
from becoming. Empty.