between the plastic louver and the motor coil
caked with ten months of mustard oil,
a tiny heap of broomsticks, string and thread
has made itself a cradle for a head.
whenever someone flips the kitchen switch
the blades hum up with sudden pitch,
the bird just shifts two inches to the side
and waits until the whirring winds subside.
it knows the exact clearance of the blade,
the thirty-degree angle of the shade,
and how the smells of fried cumin rise
into the circle of its charcoal eyes.
we bought an appliance to purge the steam,
to blow the fumes of dinner from our dream,
and nature simply said, "how kind of you
to build an incubator with a view."