My Son Asks Me What is Left or An Ode to the Wrens Who Nest in My Hanging Plants – Brianna Pike

My son asks me what is left while standing
in single hazy sun lit spot in our living room

and I think back to standing in that same room,
holding this same boy in my arms.

My son asks me what is left and I remember
standing in the wash of summer sunshine, cold

from air conditioning, squinting past glass glare
to watch tiny, fledgling wrens fall over and over

from a potted fern, it’s leaves soft, green feathers.
Last summer, a peach begonia unfurled waxy

buds cloaking their nest so well, I watered it twice
before I discovered their soft brown heads.

My son asks me what is left and I think this summer
I didn’t hang any flowers, but my wrens found a house

plant I hung at the far end of the porch and just
yesterday I saw the sharp tip of beak break

the cover of shiny green. My son asks me
what is left and I think fledglings and flowers.

My son asks me what is left and I bow beneath
his breath holding one shoe.

Brianna Pike

Brianna Pike is an Associate Professor of English at Ivy Tech Community College. Her poems have appeared in So to SpeakConnotation PressHeron TreeMemoirs & Mixtapes & among others. She serves as an Editorial Assistant for the Indianapolis Review and lives in Indy with her husband & son.

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