Tag Archives: Margaux Novak


by Margaux Novak

How do birds know about anything?
They eavesdrop each night at my bedroom window
their nest tucked inside my air conditioner
and, longing for the company,
I let them stay to hear
my one-sided conversations with myself.

When I grumble, they grouse.
They tolerate my odd-houred music
and various candle scents
transforming my room from evergreen woodlands
to lavender fields.

And in the early dawn, when waking is hard
they whisper me the weather
coax me with the warmth of summer days
or sigh the pale coos of snow,
call me softly from my bed
and sometimes, not so softly.

Are there eggs in that secret nest of theirs?
I cannot see in to tell.
But I imagine them, sitting, roosting
waiting for their own
and coddling me along instead.

On mean days, when I’m not in the mood for music
they forgive me
sing again.


          An Aubade
by Margaux Novak

Sometimes it’s safer to lie down.
The winter gone from my skin
my shoulders open, arms outstretch
I could ruminate on past days
but regret is fickle consolation.
Instead, I turn skyward. My freckles
the Pleiades across my breasts,
the multi-blonds of my lashes
beat back against the sun.
I press my palm to my lips, whisper
down my lifeline and breathe
wisps of salt leftover from night.