Inside my hip a mother bird
is still constructing her nest—
beak against pelvic bone, scraping
as she arranges twig upon twig, little
splinters in the hollow where
once my own child ripened. She pains
me, flying in & out of my scaffolding,
perching upon her eggs, she pushes
down, brooding, sinks deep
her grievance into my skeleton,
the fickle framework of what
remained after birth.
