Jacqueline Hughes Simon
What Bird but We Would Put Up with Perfection?
The boy makes birds’ nests
out of native grasses while
waiting his turn at the orthodontist.
He let me touch one
—resembling a teardrop—
the well-worn floor
calmed by his thumb.
Another day, he left one in a bush
tiny, immaculate. I recognized it
carried it home to sit
by a real one, lost
to the ground.
Next to the true nest
(rough weeds, fir needles, hurry and hair
—what color eggs were laid there? —)
it shone like lightning mocking the sky.