Spring, and

the yard fills with grackles 
oiling rusty throats, 
puffing their  

smooth as ink wings  
and sleek crests,  
posturing beaks 

towards the sky. The chickadee  
checks the little  
purple house  

three times to see if it might 
fit a brood, while the squirrels  
chase and fuck 

through the yard. The rabbit 
that wintered under the deck 
emerges thin and mangy 

and considers starting a family. Meanwhile, 
my niece turns two  
and her baby hair lifts  

off her shoulders, too fine  
for gravity. My friend holds 
her seven-pound newborn,  

just back to his birth weight—  
his fists curl  
as she recalls dip  

and hunger, learning to keep  
this small body alive.  
The truth is 

we didn’t try, but I’d forgotten  
how the truth elides, pulls  
like a water bug  

on its long oars, skiffing out of sight.  
What to do now with  
all these bassinets 

in the spruce, the flower pot, the lintel?  
I walk the long way,  
I still water the pot,  

I close the door softly beneath  
the phoebe’s basket 
of stray thoughts. 

LAURA DONNELLY

Laura Donnelly is the author of Midwest Gothic (Ashland Poetry Press) and Watershed (Cider Press Review), and her recent poems have appeared in SWWIM, Colorado Review, EcoTheo Review, and elsewhere. Originally from Michigan, she lives in upstate New York and teaches at SUNY Oswego.