Thursday, August 19, 2010

Death of a Dove

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.


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.