I’m blind to life—how could I forget?
The prophecy has shown itself before.
Now I do regret
not thinking about it more, and more.
Their arrival overnight,
slipping through a crack in the window,
claiming my apartment—they had every right—
with their feces’ shimmery glow.
In the peace of the night, they shat on the kitchen counter,
but also on carpet and floor.
Surprisingly unsurprised by this intruding encounter,
if they had knocked, would I have opened the door?
There they were: two doves,
the lovebirds looking at me foolishly.
Where do I have my plastic gloves?
Twisting my body around, ghoulishly.
The only fool here is me, my love.
Years ago, I had read about a similar story.
In this story, the arrival of the dove
had turned the character’s life into purgatory.
“I would let you live here with me,” I whispered sheepishly,
gesticulating with my shaky hands.
“You’re more than two doves to me,” deepishly.
“Neither one of you understands.”