Built a safe home for spawning
ideas, children, poetry.
Added, didn’t subtract; multiplied
illusions, marches, chanting;
hauled a brick, a stone, a beam.
Can safe space really be walled off?
The Carolina Wren flew up
fine fluff in its bill
hopped onto my cabinet
to feather its nest.
Am I the predator it’s fighting against?
Can it abandon its own young?
I seemed safe in my home
Coronavirus notwithstanding.
Gym at the Y? I don’t think so.
Swim at Ocean Grove? Are you serious?
Distancing myself and wearing a mask?
Can I just shelter in poems?
The young deer turned its head towards me.
Stationary on the pond’s edge,
it trotted behind a tree
disappeared into greenery,
its home a sliver of woods.
Can safe space long be hidden?
I shrank away behind my mask
friends uninvited to my home;
no trains rides into Philly;
shunned protests in Malvern.
My own safety is paramount:
Can I seal off my home for good?
The bluejay screeched
his red-tailed hawk imitation
to scare off his competitors
from my bounteous feeder.
It worked! He is not who he seems.
Can a home be disrupted at will?
To shout Black Lives Matter would drive away
my family from our weekly Zooms;
would seem to appropriate
400 years of struggle;
would pop the bubble I’ve created.
Can I compose at home, Black lives denied?
