NEST stephanie pope
A lady quail came before Passion
Week
this year & laid 10 eggs in the patio
flower pot resting just underneath my
bedroom window. But last night I lay
at rest and dreamed an emptied nest.
In the morning how not removable
is thy lost word nesting where I lay
so stunned & moved by inner losses
throughout my own night’s sleep. Yet a way
of knowing moves in & is laid to nest here
with me. Something else
having pierced my breast
gotten under my skin diminishes
the low point and then moves on.
My rest and my restless rest
sweetly worded wordless shape thy bird
what shaped in loss returns. In pale voice
a laid-to-nest begins in wing to seek
thy nearly touching hand: the empty nest
in likeness renders goneness small―_ _all
not read and empty yolks me
this year & laid 10 eggs in the patio
flower pot resting just underneath my
bedroom window. But last night I lay
at rest and dreamed an emptied nest.
In the morning how not removable
is thy lost word nesting where I lay
so stunned & moved by inner losses
throughout my own night’s sleep. Yet a way
of knowing moves in & is laid to nest here
with me. Something else
having pierced my breast
gotten under my skin diminishes
the low point and then moves on.
My rest and my restless rest
sweetly worded wordless shape thy bird
what shaped in loss returns. In pale voice
a laid-to-nest begins in wing to seek
thy nearly touching hand: the empty nest
in likeness renders goneness small―_ _all
not read and empty yolks me
―I cradle your big history resting
in
my emptied nap poetizing growth. How
touching,
centerless
nourishing
my emptied nap poetizing growth. How
touching,
centerless
nourishing
divine
no thing is in thy yellowing moment.
I forgot to say how the father quail
sits a good long while on those speckled eggs
during the day. In heat, no word, these words are
so like thy yellow hand fashioning what a shape
in loss returns by thy nourishing masculine form.
A bird plays the big green role— my days, cracking
ten whole eggs darkly hidden in his feathers.
Night, too, is dream-shaping my nest & with subtlety
suggests a bright lady yolks in my unrest, her goneness
reappearing as light
no thing is in thy yellowing moment.
I forgot to say how the father quail
sits a good long while on those speckled eggs
during the day. In heat, no word, these words are
so like thy yellow hand fashioning what a shape
in loss returns by thy nourishing masculine form.
A bird plays the big green role— my days, cracking
ten whole eggs darkly hidden in his feathers.
Night, too, is dream-shaping my nest & with subtlety
suggests a bright lady yolks in my unrest, her goneness
reappearing as light
& days in the kitchen have
blazed.
©2017 Nest stephaniepope mythopoetry.com
©2017 Nest stephaniepope mythopoetry.com
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