Emily Leithauser Homing She's at her nest again; a slender twig
pokes through the air-conditioner; she clicks
her beak against the glass, ruffles, and picksat chips of bark and powdered leaves she brought
inside the vent. She beats a straining wing.
She's almost in, and through an openingin that machine—now out of use (who'd choose
to switch it on?)—I hear her dun-brown feathers
stirring in the room. Now that the weather'schillier, I mind warm mornings less,
and knowing she and hungry mice and late
mosquitoes use our houses to createnew shelters for themselves, I let her. No,
it's not compassion, but a cold caprice
allowing her to build her nest in peace,and it's the imagined crunch, or dizzy thought
of wisps lost in the whirr, of twitching red,
that drives me from my room to your old bedwith its undented pillows and neat creases,
and, sorry for my mess, a fugitive
among unopened books and lotions, liveyour earlier life, and wonder where you are.
And in your bed I dream that I am you,
that you're outside, as me, and pushing through.