Stella Reed

Issue #
September 27, 2015

Dovan Hymm

1. In the meantime I will leave it here, in the skin beneath my shoulder blades
2. This is the definition we never learned of Dove. How frangible light of battle

      for keeping, which later you extract with tweezers, it having lodged deep in a vein
      field and forest entangles when it drops through the wings of dove

      rough with blood. When it emerges newborn wet you can sing it—
      as mammal as roar as wearing the face of a gargoyle or sphinx—sing it—

      the meaning of Dove. It will knot the ends of your hair; it will peck at your palms;
      if you can, sing it to the west where waters will rise

      it will make you wish you’d left it longer beneath the skin. It is why
      It sounds true if it is sung with a hint of blood in the throat—

      my father will shoot out the eyes of pigeons; why they land in the rubber
      was it really the eyes of a woman my father… and a child held to her

      band and pebble roll cries of raven and crow; it is why my mother sews her
      breast as she leapt. My mother found this song too late to save her sight her

      fingers to altar cloth instead of bed sheets.
      fingertips pressing coral knots into cloth like braille.

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