← v2n1, Spring 2003
Poetry · Volume 2, Number 1

Self Portrait as a Mourning Dove

On the side of a desert road

                                 a headless dove,

           its body a basket of ants,

basket of creosote stems.

To live at all is to grieve

                                 and from what life

           did we gain this trust,

awake each dawn

to find the bright air

                                 full again,

           rustle and coo

in the widening palms?