by Abigail Raley

All you need to know is that there
are birds, somewhere, birds on the line
calving the sky in two, their talons
clutching their suspension, their highwire
kissing the moon’s lap, and at the top
of the utility pole holding them taut,
keeping aloft their still bodies, there is
a nest, a nest made of my
hair, stems from my favorite rose bush,
slivers of tinsel I ripped from my cat’s
jaws, just in the moment she could’ve
swallowed them whole, fronds of
milkweed that invaded my garden,
dried blades of grass I picked from
the lawn and discarded when, putting
them between my wet lips, they refused
to sing, but what’s most important—
and this is my favorite part—
is that, at the nest’s center, there are
eggs, blue as a spot
of turquoise dropped down into
the river, and in them, finally
there is the inside, the inside
I would candle with the butane lighter
I took from your coffee table that
first bright morning I woke next to your
small body, wrapped around me
like a quilt, your deep breath
hot on the fur of my lobe,
my flesh naked and without envy,
your fingers heavy and steady
and long on their course to my center
and when you trapped yourself
inside the husk of me,
I felt hot and sweet, as simple
as nectar, as quiet as a chick
in its shell, and as you dressed
and made yourself again a person
of the world, I felt my own creature
deep and hard and new, so when
I pulled you into me and kissed
into your abyss, you cupped the
yolk of my throat in your hand
and squeezed it gently
and never let it break.

Abigail Raley is a queer poet from Kentucky. She is currently an MFA poetry candidate at the University of Montana.