The Woman Who Fed the Doves
Short and compactly Sicilian
she was the pastor’s mother––a priest––
her only child; a son. She started her car
every morning, put it in gear, gunned it
in a semi-circle from curb to curb
until one day she plowed across the street
into camellias and stucco down to the mesh.
Someone called police; the priest came
flapping his pudgy hands. She fed mourning
doves in her back yard, a grey cloud
of thousands and thousands of them,
sated, leaving. Always some drama.
She would stand on the sidewalk, aiming
the Evil Eye––Il Malochio––
through a living room window.
I used to hear the call and response
of doves softly echoing across treetops.
The priest finally put his mother in a place
where she died, and the doves went away.
Now all I hear is the raucous cawing of crows.
About the Poet:
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