I was two weeks recovered
when the nest first appeared, 
buried in my hanging mint.

More people stopped by:
blew quick breaths and the bird
came home to nest.

First two eggs, then three,
then a sepia-splattered four
hidden deep in the twined pine.

Laid while white women cried
black wolf, an old myth breaking
through so many glass screens.

Then we forgot, fucked seriously 
with mouths and I bargained
with god and I cried
after the death of G.F.
whose name isn’t mine to say.

We left for Birmingham
and worried they wouldn’t hatch
or worse – would be stolen by some

Cuckoos, smashing crystalline
brown ovum splattered 
on the familiar cement patio.

When we returned, the birds were born
and the riots had begun.

– Alyssa Ross