Postpartum

My neighbors show me the spot on their house
where a squirrel ate through the wood to reach her nest

of dying babies after the remodeler nailed in the last row
of cedar shingles. All night the desperate scratches

kept the household awake until the husband in his robe,
bare feet on damp grass, walked into the night garden

and aimed the BB gun where the roof meets the eave.
I can see the claw marks, the ragged edges as I hold

my son, his bottom slung inside my elbow, warm body
the smallest heater, weight a solid thing, heart quicker

than a den of squirrels, their sightless forms curled
around each other, down of silver fur. I want to believe

that under a still moon in a chilly April night, the mother
took each pup by the nape, carried them to a new nest

made of insulation, cardboard, and leaves. I want to say
you know I'm on the squirrel's side here, right?

but choke on sawdust and paint, splinters
in throat, broken mouth, frenzied hands.