L a u r e n   G o r d o n

 

 

You found your poem’s nest

in the eaves of your father’s garage; a tangle

of pine and ash, threaded and taut,

lined with paper shredded by the mouth

of the mother, her own saliva a salve

to soften and warm

small, temporary bodies.

 

 

 

copyright 2014 by Lauren Gordon