A Nest
Rebecca Schumejda

My daughter brings a fallen bird’s nest,
points at kite tails woven in with twigs
and leaves. Look! she says, and I see how
those long colorful streamers left tangled in
branches became useful again. I think of
my brother flying kites from cell to cell
looking for companionship, all the tales
caught up in between steel bars. You don’t
understand the power of words scribbled
on the backs of prison request forms,
he’s told me time and time again,
the difference a small offering makes.
She writes long letters to her uncle, but
I don’t let her read his incoherent responses,
he’s busy, I tell her. She wants to bring
the nest inside; she wants to hatch
the one undamaged egg. It doesn’t work
like that, I tell her, but she’s stubborn.
She fills a Ziploc baggie with warm water
covers it with a washcloth to place atop the egg.

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