My Pigeon

Perhaps your guarding
an empty nest,
staking out territory
for your once stillborn
child.

Perhaps you’re pregnant,
tottering on my fence
like a drunken
stuffed big bird.

Perhaps your making
it all up,
angry bird;
if you just stay
still
just a while
your flame
dies
unmatched.

Chasing your absent husband
around the perimeter
of your dreams.
He doesn’t hear
your screams,
except to swoop into your yard.
His weapon:
an unused wrench
Your heart:
a faulty machine

Sag along,
freezing bird,
chirping the saddest song
written by
mother.

Venetian Pigeon by Bruce Gherman


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