Tara Borin

Out here it doesn’t matter
if I never get dressed,
chop wood in my long underwear,
squat lazily outside the cabin
under twisted spruce trees.

There’s no one around to hear me yell
at the kids,
or to see me slap the oldest
when he bites the baby.

Weeds don’t matter,
petunias dying in their pots
don’t matter,
because only the whiskey jack
ever stops for tea.

I can’t refuse her, so
invite her in,
ask after her soot-coloured young:
have they fledged, can they fend
for themselves.
She tilts her head, perched
on the lip of her mug,
her black-bright eyes critical
of my featherless children.

I shoo her off,
cast her out with the cold dregs of tea,
unaware I am crying
again.