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.
Apr 5
Apr 5, 2026 at 3:31 PM UTC
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.
This poem was written after an unexpected encounter with a pigeon that had crashed into my window while I was at work. Leaving behind shattered glass, a carcass, and a feeling of prophecy—one that seemed destined to come true. From that moment, a series of poems emerged. My dove was bringing me a source of inspiration.
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