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.