The birds are making a nest of me

out there, from all the hair I’ve lost

to my hairbrush and rug, bits of skin

and grey fuzz from my skirt too —

and everyone tells me

this doesn’t look good. 
Am I shedding because it’s winter,

or because, as the Bad Luck Astrologer says,

Now at twenty-nine I’m finally completing

my first full twirl around the moon?

I think it must be both. 
I should have known better then to test

my weight on that cold limb, should have

known better than to buy you

new shoes. All night they danced
 
around the house and just before dawn
tapped like a black moth

right out the door.

And all night 
I brush my hair like a nearly dead plant,

letting the brown fall from its hard root

until it sings

like a sharpened knife

with its one sprout

of new life. 

    Kim Kent is our poet in Residence for October.


    Previously: See you Later, Grapefruit, and Just for Tonight, Walking Home in Rain, Waiting.