We break apart the half-built nest the finches
spent all morning on — he guarded while
she worked fast, fast, fast
a dour little brown thing with twigs
in her mouth, a wind-up toy set going
by instinct and the scent of spring.
His head red and loud as a poison berry.
But I don’t want them dive-bombing
us or shitting everywhere
so we take a broom to this racket
of sticks wedged behind our porch light,
concoct our own mess of tinfoil
and old flyers, to keep them from alighting
here where we made our home first.
Foiled, they blur past, free
to try again somewhere else.
Home is any open space
you can squeeze
your weightless body into.
Later, you will say
things have been going really good
for us, and I will think, not so loud,
you don’t want god to hear.
Leah Schnurr lives in Ottawa, Canada, where she writes very slowly. Her poetry has appeared in The Windsor Review, and is forthcoming in CAROUSEL. She tweets sporadically like the introvert she is at @LeahSchnurr.