The Nest in Winter

6 6 Y T H E N E S T I N W I N T E R K I M I K O H A H N In the Father’s shadowy hoard pillows belch feathers across mattress and floors: what was an oriental rug, now a carpet of scat, gone-astray socks, calendars from rescue shelters angling for checks. There’s nothing to toss among the vivid tethers to Mother. Maybe my mother, maybe Father’s. There’s no margarine container any less pathetic than a netsuke from Kyoto; no expired sardine tin less urgent than a dozen aerograms; no receipt less intimate than their honeymoon photo snapped in the local aquarium. The adult daughter takes in the spew, pabulum that a bird feeds its nestling. ...