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Days Like Pigeons

by A. E. Loveridge

  • Because the photograph keeps us still and young on the bookcase,
  • because some saints go uncanonized,
  • because pigeons and angels have wings,
  • because we are made of meat and bones,
  • because we will all be reduced to our most commonly used definition,
  • because definitions change like children,
  • because one day would be another without a name,
  • because we didn’t give them their names,
  • because we choose to call them by those names,
  • because we didn’t name the pigeons on the sidewalk,
  • because you drag the sack of you into the city most days,
  • because you can play piano, saxophone, and basketball, but don’t,
  • because we all can do things, but don’t,
  • because the pillow smells like your baked bread head when you go,
  • because nobody knows a body alone, unfurled like a cape on the couch,
  • because of my body thrown down on the leaves,
  • because the days we didn’t name are long and carve out our bodies,
  • because the light falls down at the end of days like locusts,
  • because I didn’t give you your name,
  • because my hands are butchers carving the days from your back,
  • I name each bone through your tender meat.

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