by Megan Snyder-Camp
What we built to hold us, the year's memory,
menus and daytrips, after a while
came loose. Those nights
we balanced on each other's mistakes,
cradling our wine:
twigs those branches now.
Who knew what lived there?
She she she called one bird.
What lived there knew its place.
Another bird splits its nest wide,
hinges the gap with spider silk, learning
to give, to give, to give until breaking. Only then—
either one gives until breaking or one does not.
Last updated September 24, 2022