The Nest

Rosemary beads hang above my bed.
I keep you all out like venomous
serpents dwindling over God’s fire.

My journal has become my blanket
like your hand in my hair,
like waking up to wisps and bangs
as tangled as our economy.

I suppose you’ll never leave
my poems now like Chagall’s
wife. You’ll be the white
inverted mind in the corner.

I never thought that through,
never thought any of it through.
(As much as I think)

Our future child never entered
my womb, but now their
premature existence
has dissipated.

It is the same as abortion.