My New Nest

You leave to work for the day, this nest shakes

like a golden mirage.

Morning spills through the peek holes of your imperfect weave.

I flip through old shells hidden in your bed of feather braids.  

I roll in your heap of molt and map the dots of light ‘til you come home.

By Julie Webb

Father, Daugther

I could display my toys and dolls,
you could arrange old photographs.

I could give you a hammer,
you could give me nails to hold onto.

I would give nails to you
in groups of three and pairs of two
and kiss them as I let them go.

The nails I hand to you
can make our dreams come true,
I'll kiss them as I let you go.


By Julie Webb

In My Boyfriend Jeans

He built a makeshift closet for me
when he moved me in.

Each dress hangs
like a bucket in an empty well.


By Julie Webb

Morning Stretch

Sunlight dives into the window,
crashes through my sleep.
From dark recesses quakes
the first stretch of day.
My body moves this womb of a space
around me without me knowing.


By Julie Webb