I had to bury a dove once;
I didn’t know before,
bringing death to my windowsill
and a prophecy of more.
Shattered glass, broken neck,
and sunflower seeds
—What did it try to tell me?
Why now it needs?
Like a tarot reading,
unrequested, sour, and on point,
a milky layer around its black pupils,
guts spilling.
I’m wondering if another dove is mourning its loss;
I read once they can mourn their lost ones for months on end.
It’s autumn now, and my dove is dead.
It rains,
and the leaves are falling, as they should.
Cold air smells like snow; it hasn’t snowed yet.
Lungs dry, a stinging breath—
my dove is dead.