top of page

nest by Katya Buresh

I chopped down the nest—took a heavy pair of hedge trimmers & cut all the

vines & branches surrounding, careful to avoid the old telephone line ent-

angled with them. I thought it was an old nest, considered for a moment that

maybe there would be baby birds inside, but figured on it being empty & not with

two eggs— [soft turquoise robin’s eggs]— resting in the belly of this bowl I now held in my ignorant hands.

When we moved here, I was 7 & enamored with the glory that was deer & foxes peach tree apple tree bluebirds blue jays persimmon tree

bats grapevines groundhogs fig tree coyote woodpeckers walnut tree possum frog

It’s near impossible for a human to keep them alive said the man from the

wildlife refuge over the phone in regards to the eggs that were now snuggled

in a box on my bed.

How I’d altered this menagerie, magnificent gallery in a brief moment how

They’re probably already dead, mom suggested before offering me a hug &

promising she wasn’t mad all 3 times I asked. But

probably doesn’t mean definitely &

I dug up the ceramic heat lamp from the basement, the one we’d used to keep our parakeets warm through winter, and clamped it to the post of my childhood bunk bed. It stunk like nail polish.

how there’s only so much to be learned from a frantic Google search.

After a few minutes, I surrendered, ashamed, and carried the nest back out

side. I wished for away to wipe my fingerprints from the thin walls sep arating

embryo from uni verse before sliding the twiggy fixture back into uncut

branches, washing my hands, determining

there are some sacred matters [I&] [from which] humans would do best

to disappear

10 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

writer interview with Emily Franklin

Opal Literary: Discuss your journey to becoming a writer, including any tips for those considering it as a career path. Emily Franklin: I started writing at a very young age, publishing my first poe

Cheshire Cat by Arsimmer MCcoy

Don’t ever mistake me again. My smile is not an invitation for baseless declarations. It is the black silk slip my mama made me wear, under my dress for church, so no one could see through to m

Untitled by Bells

My eyes follow the green glow of his kitchen walls as I lay on the floor, The smell of his compost And our dying bouquets leaking Into my nostrils Like cigarette smoke hiding Behind a set of teeth. ​


bottom of page