The doves find a spot
Of shade under a bench
And sit together, quietly
Speaking about the world
Of people and rain. They recall
The dog they once saw,
How they had nightmares
For weeks. They agree
The clouds are moving
Faster today, more blue
Than gray. How soft
The sky looks – almost
Delicate – like a cursive
Letter of love was written
And finger-stirred, thickly
Left to light and diffuse the sky.
A littered desk, the afternoon
Snack, the apple left a small pool of moisture.
Core upturned, remaining on the desk.
There’s a park that’s not really
A park where I can go, alone,
And wait for evening, or nothing.
Some days the time feels like enough
Time. It’s not flying. It’s just moving
The same way I do: ordered, unnoticed.
I remember what it was like, the last time.
I know the season, the twist of the air
And what happened, that winter. How broken
We all were. How we lugged our new
Sorrows across your white, snowy world
Of time. When my mother and father lied,
My father called from states away, to tell me
About it. In time, winter took hold of my life.
I learned a girl can get buried before it’s
Her time. I’d sit in my truck waiting for you
To break the ice in the pre-dawn cold.
There was nowhere else I could go, and so
I froze in that foreign land, caught between
The two of them and that winter was all
Whisper. Lost, I began to forget who I was
And who I’d been. A daughter forced to tear
Through the ugliness that lets itself out
On all of us. I thought I was done becoming
Who I was, but I wasn’t done with the hurt
And hurting people. Turns out, no one was.