Death of A Dove
The knock came at six
the sun was setting, blinding rays and the bird got confused
the window was a mirror and
his reflection was a she-bird lover, then himself, then a cold, unforgiving
hammer to the head.
Professional mourner
I found him still breathing,
eyes open in the grass
wings clutched together
blue, white, grey-flanked feathers cradled
in a bed of cut grass pilings, freshly stacked.
His dove heart beat strong, urgent
a drum-beat procession
and he looked the part of dove: white feathers starring in our sentimental love
songs to the last,
and I moved him
to the shade
under a tall pine tree
to hide him from the vultures and
the needles held him close, shielded his wings from the sand and dirt;
I knew I had killed him, and I left the window
marked with his smear, his blood stain and feather tip stuck
a note in the glass to other birds, other humans
visitors: a dove died here today:
he had grey wings and blue and white feathers and funereal black eyes and
that’s all we know but
we mourn him, we do.
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Author: Eva Gordon
Bio: Eva Gordon is a freelance writer and editor. She is currently an MFA student at Spalding University, and she holds a BA in Fictin writing from Eugene Lang College at The New School University. Her poetry appears in the Spring 2010 issue of Prism Review. Her new book, a guide on writing children's books, will be published at Christmas 2010 by Adams Media.