Nest

Simone is babbling to her nighttime friend,

a small pink fabric square,

while Cal gracefully

waves himself to sleep, smoothing his hands

across the bed, the air, his chest

like someone learning

to make spiderweb.

Slow is the quality of his motion, deliberate

as his brain instructs

his unheeding body.

How can one

heed? And Simone, under the sign

of perfection, lurches and jerks

toward whatever beckons her attention:

movement in impassioned fits, irregular

as heartthrobs, unlike Cal, the thread

of him continuously

unfurling, furling

again, some

verb with no word. You love your children

as much as anything

you were unprepared for:

fiercely, with fear,

with all the fucking hatred it takes.