They say that mourning doves
will stand over their lost
mate, and cry for hours, maybe
days.
They say that when geese
lose their mates, they don’t
find another, sometimes
they won’t even migrate
anymore.
You told me, in bed last
night, that you want to die
first, because you don’t think
you could live without me. You
don’t think you could find another
silly goose.
I asked if you’d rather have
me pining away for you,
a dove song for the ages,
but you say nothing.
So I think of Audubon. All
the birds he killed,
an unnatural predator,
just so he could paint their
blood on the page. And
I wonder if the geese
and the doves
were shot in pairs,
shot in lovers,
dead and painted,
together.
Burlesque Press 