Unproven Hypothesis

I’ve become so used to falling asleep 
[ alone / with the thought of you ]
that I could never – truly – be with you now
I would only be disappointed
by your arms (not as soft as my six-foot fleece blanket)
or when I could not lay my head on your chest
as easily as I do on my thin pillow

Field Notes from the Suburbs

At first glance, it looks like it was caught in the tree – 
blown there by the wind. 
Green plastic netting, the kind they use 
to fence off construction sites or 
border a freshly planted shrub. 
Keep out, it says. Something here 
is worth protecting. Something here is
being made. Something is
here on purpose. 
On closer inspection, 
its presence in the branches is purposeful, 
shaped and not tangled. In fact, 
it has been woven, 
alongside twigs and grass 
and other construction materials, 
into a nest. The bird responsible 
is nowhere in sight. 
This is not a poetic act, 
an intentional rebellion, or 
a twist of irony. Just a bird 
who saw something green, 
and flexible, 
and strong. But there it is, anyway: 
irony, rebellion, poetry. 
Keep out. 
Protection, 
creation. 
Purpose.

Abigail Ann Gray is a new writer from Virginia, who primarily writes fiction but sometimes writes poems by accident. She holds a BA in literary studies from Roanoke College. These days, when she isn’t writing, she works at a public library and as a freelance pianist (though generally not at the same time). She has work forthcoming in Press Pause Press. Instagram: @sheistoofondofbooks

Featured Image: “Cat-sleeping-Colosseum-Rome” by Debseye licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.