Bird Nest in a Bell Jar by Bonnie Thibodeau
I put it under glass to keep,
because what else can I do with a woven cradle
when it falls from within my walls?
I don’t expect parents will return.
Still, I keep their house for them.
As if I could save the already-tumbled eggs
from cracking. I held them both,
one in each hand, trying so hard for gentleness
with the right one that I crushed the one left.
I’m sad—more than I maybe should be.
I’m sorry. As if I’m to blame.
As if it mattered. As if they weren’t
empty shells already.
I preserve the nest with its forsaken eggs,
because what else can I do but wonder about the great beauty of birds
conceived in such small and simple rooms, wombs like speckled marbles.
