Nest

Simone is babbling to her nighttime friend,a small pink fabric square,while Cal gracefully

waves himself to sleep, smoothing his handsacross the bed, his chest, the airlike someone learningto make spiderweb.

Slow is the quality of his motion, deliberateas his brain instructshis body withoutknowing. How can one

know? And Simone, under the signof her new perfection, lurches and jerksto whatever her attention beckons:movement is in fits, irregular

as heartthrobs, unlike Cal, the threadof him continuouslyunfurling, furlingagain, some

verb with no word. You love your childrenas much as anythingyou were unprepared for:fiercely, with fear,

with all the fucking hatred it takesto sustain a self through so muchshiftless snowing. Love isa composite. When they

revisit this site aeons from now to dig,the bones of you—yes, me—won't fittogether to form

any coherent clue or allusion, but hereyou are, today, your nestprotected from all butwhat happens.