so you won't see it,
i construct a nest of worries
like i watch the small brown birds
assemble from stray garbage
on our street each day:
a bottle cap-- a twist tie--
a halved pink flower--
they're always gathering
& i wonder how many nests
they would be able to make 
&, then, how many 
i might be congregating
as well-- if i'm building
nests without noticing
& leaving them in the corners
of rooms & on the tops of
bookshelves. a crinkling 
of chirps-- those are 
all my worry children 
& no matter what i can't
feed them all. i cook a pot
of spaghetti like my mom did
when we were low on food
at the end of the week.
i pinch individual noodles between
my fingers like the necks
of orchids & i try to
feed all the tiny birds 
the emerge from my mouth
when i'm a knot of worried.
i walk the street outside
& weave plastic garbage bags
& stray flip flops 
into my hair to make
another nest up there 
so all my worry children have
a place to go if they 
come alive during the day
inside of in my home 
where they would have more
nesting options. i pick up 
quarters & feed them the shine
off of them & the nestlings
are still hungry. they stay
nestlings forever. i wish
someone would come along
& tell me i can be 
a nestling forever-- let me sleep
in a soft cluster of fibers
stolen from the sidewalk 
& tired trees that 
weld together my city. 
in the distance the train 
wakes up new birds--
some of them flightless
& i arrange stones 
on the floor for them.
i find a broken
phone charger & thread
it into my hair. 
when you find the nests 
which seems inevitable
i hope that you pretend
you don't see them--
i count them all over
the house before i can sleep
& i tell you that i'm
counting the number 
of angels i know--
i start 1, ... 2,...
3... 4... the birds love
this & they toss their
feathers like gum wrappers 
5... you ... 6 ask if
i have noticed the items
stuck in my hair ... 7
& i say no 8... not
while i'm counting ... 9
while i'm counting ... 10
nothing else exists 
but my nests 
i pull out the items
from my hair & collect them
in a basket at the bottom
of the closet 
you never open,
the closet no one else
can find, where all
the birds flock at night
& wait for my to get up
in the morning
to feed them