There’s a button of pink skin
the size of a baby’s thumbnail
in the middle of her chest
from where she’s plucked fur
to line the nest she’s been building
with single-minded focus for days now.
She’s piled straw from the hutch
into the corner where it’s warm and dark,
a place where hope sleeps undisturbed.
Blinded by instinct, she grunts
if I get too close. Nips my hand
to signal I’m no longer welcome here.
Powerless, I make the decision
to deny her this motherhood so easily,
while upstairs the cot yawns empty.
Spared for another month.