I bring to you, dear doctor, this mess of nests.
An intricate ball of string or white floss.
A rug woven by a woman sitting in a stall
in the mall speaking Navajo to me and
Spanish to her brother. I pull out of my pocket
a wire from the cable, the one that brought
me delicatessen and sausage McMuffin
and foiegras in Illinois even though
it’s illicit. I tell you this list
to give you some parameters
to suggest diagnosis and symptom,
cure, and preposition all in one.
I know where my trunk lies. I know where
my arms are but it’s against wind feed
and wind chill, wander zone and last pull
that I wonder. My nerves bite here and here,
in pork fat and goose fat, pickled
in cucumbers and red wine. They’re wrapped
up in sweater and rug and the birds that sing
softly in my ear, dear doctor, are the ones
telling me that if you could just say
the word I would leave you alone but
I hear you tripping as sadly and as quickly
as I do over nest, branch, wire, string.
If we could tease this out, dear doctor,
you wouldn’t have to listen through that cold
piece of an ear and I, dear doctor, could walk
away from here, named and meant and promised,
etched like a headstone, dear doctor. Sewn.