Grandma,
the moon is now
and your pillow is lined
with spider silk and the tiny twigs
we brewed in dew.
In the curio,
you’ve hidden your clutch
of eggs between teacups and the porcelain
doll’s cheek that rocks
like a round-bottomed bowl.
Come and peck
at apple rings hanging from the beam.
Forage higher still, under the eastern gable,
where I’ve thatched a nest
for you to roost.
I’ll watch from the rafters —
watch you preen
the nightjar feathers
I’ve twined
into your hair.
Lorrie Ness is a poet writing in a rural corner of Virginia. When she’s not writing, she can be found stomping through the woods, watching birds and playing in the dirt. Her work can be found in numerous journals, including THRUSH, Palette Poetry and Sky Island Journal. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021 and her chapbook, “Anatomy of a Wound” was published by Flowstone Press in July of 2021.