Undiagnosed Discomfort

Asked if I still keep doves,

I recall I once did,

but like the petals of down they 

shed, I’ve lost their names, 

markings, the number of

bodies I held in my palm,

fed capsules of bread I’d

rolled between thumb and

finger, til my mother set

them free, out of feelings

of guilt, and it’s not that

I want to cage anything 

again, it’s that I don’t 

remember the last time

I nurtured something,

fed wafers into mouths and called 

feathered children to my hand. 

So when one falls in the yard, 

I declare it ours

and even though for the 

first time we’ve agreed 

on a name for a child,

this is not a Paloma we will

keep. You fear disease and

I fear your coldness, and to

prove your loyalty and parent skills

you drag me to ER for 

pains we’ve been ignoring, but they won’t

let you in, (which makes me think 

maybe there is something to see.)

I’ve never seen inside of me, no

tenants invited to nest. I look 

for a Paloma, some intruder kicking 

my plans and apprehension, but it’s 

so fucking empty in there.

No Paloma, tiny heartbeat,

weight of a dove.