Your Head Is a Cubby

Niche, nest, nidus—how cozy
You imagine it depends
On the kind of thing in it—

Pocket for bacteria
Sounds nasty, and cavity
For spider eggs unpleasant,

But the out-of-the-way spot
In the flowering hedges
Where you and your best girlfriend

Built fairy nests years ago,
Or the dark cafe corner
Where you and someone bonded

Over drinks against the night,
Your nidus of resistance
Against a miserable world—

Those niches you remember
Fondly as the little shelf
Where you kept your night reading,

The poems that grew in the dark,
The words with eggs between them,
The little ideas you nursed.