How to Write a Home 

First, there should be a birdbath,

birds who visit. They are custard yellow

and shallow swimmers. It sits alone, in

the backyard, developing a ring of scarlet

rust, of dried water line, marbled mouth open

swallows swallows alive. Listen, there is also

a blanket thinning soft, spread across the arm

of a blue chair waiting for our clothes to come off.

Upstairs the neighbor plays flute, the rain puddles.

City sounds come and go, muffler bellows deep and

low. A phone is held at arms length and someone yells

fuck you into it over and over. Songs rush from car

windows, songs off-key from ear plugged sopranos walk by

slow. Sirens bounce off the walls. Lives touch, rub up

against each other. Our hairs stand on end. The birds visit,

puff up their feathers, sing too, hop hop along.

A.M. Brant’s poems have appeared in Cream City Review, Moon City Review, Spillway, and elsewhere. She teaches writing at the University of Pittsburgh and women’s and gender studies at Carlow University. She lives in Pittsburgh.