by Victoria Korth
Before he died the oral surgeon made platform for the doves, a clever, inexpensive way to help them feed, especially in winter. His daughters came from Maine and sold the house but left the workbench with iron clamps, Doris’s drapes, a mahogany-framed mirror, and the feeder. Today three doves sit quietly on its narrow ledge as if waiting for a movie to start. One long descending tone penetrates the window glass while I am separating clean and dirty clothing, makes me think of how doves mean so many things I wish I didn’t care about, being outside more near the coming and going, how I would like to prescribe ziprasidone to dove hunters in Argentina. I wonder why I’ve grown less tolerant, yet pooling into the evaporating years a bout of tenderness toward them—what will not be gone until after I am gone, those softly falling dove gray vessels.
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