for my nest mates
A hare stopped in the clover and swaying flower-bells, and
said a prayer to the rainbow, through the spider’s web.
—Arthur Rimbaud
We were convinced: either we would die
or we’d be fine. We’d beat this. All better,
a Band-Aid across the knee, dried tears.
And more life, running outside, letting
the screen door slap against the stop.
I wanted simply to hang up laundry
in the basement, to pin the children’s socks
to the line. That would be Christmas,
to unwrap a thankless task
and finish with an empty basket.
Remember when your mother broke
her collarbone and wore a child’s brace
(she had shrunk) and finally
the doctor said, “It will never heal.
She’s too old.” Yes, well.
We do have work: as cartographers
drafting maps of the wasteland
between health and death,
where days aren’t made of hours
and socks have holes,
where brave rabbits freeze,
testing their composure
like suspects in a lineup,
appraised by hidden Beings
who are ravenous for any answer.