The Nest

Around the clock

a flock of feather

friends; the cuckoos

and the cockatoos,

cardinals of a million

color trends are burrowing

in my curls, among the roots

with pinching talons. The twist

and twirl of their wings

pulls my hair in knots

over my eyes; ears

blinded by their rhyme

riddled songs that beat

about my head with faint

brush and flick. Although

I claw and snatch and

trap, the trappings of

their beaks are far too

much; I cannot get

them out before two

more come and settle

over my scalp. I stand

by the window surrounded

with mirrors and white

tile reflecting my crown

of bright wings.

I cannot say I am sorry.