1 poem

by Randi Clemens

Nesting

I often wonder how many times my shed hair has been used in
making a bird’s nest. Twigs and me caress and cradle soon
crackling eggs. I want to hold something the way my mother held
me in her, growing the strawberry blonde strands. Yesterday I
saw two baby birds dead on the hot concrete. Flies buzzing
around their frail, featherless corpses. And I thought, what mother?
There is something so maternal about lock and safe. And
something so automatic in the blame. How many times had my
mother been marred? And what shame waits for me? I want to
hold something until its hair grows and falls. Flows, and falls out.