She called them doves, though she knew
they were pigeons. Pigeons
peck at apple cores and sandwich wrappers
crumpled in the gutter, while doves
fly from baskets after weddings.
Her father had corrected her once
and once again, explaining
the importance of correct sight,
correct speech, precision. Mistakes
threaten, he said, to become lies.
Some years, mistakes
pelt her like sleet, but once a white bird
flew to her outstretched hand. When its claws
clenched her finger, she felt more
than human. Now she packs
snow into blocks, traces
its silhouette, the bird’s, with a short twig,
outlining its wing, tail feathers, its small
observant eye. Not every bird
is real, and it would be a mistake, she knows,
to believe this one could fly
or even see her. But she sees—
she does—and memory
emerges softly enough some days
for a white bird to rest on her hand.
***
Lynn Domina is the author of three collections of poetry: Inland Sea, Corporal Works, and Framed in Silence. Her recent work appears in Ninth Letter, The Gettysburg Review, About Place, and other periodicals. She currently lives in Marquette, Michigan, USA, along the beautiful shore of Lake Superior.
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