-After the surrealist painting by Leonora Carrington
People were always getting my name wrong.
Wife instead of widow, glass instead of window.
Before I was Mrs. Partridge, I was a homing pigeon,
a wild rock dove bred to always find my way
home. Home was any wide nest, deep and warm.
I never wanted to get married,
but here I am calling myself hen
where my heart should be.
Not my children but my hands holding a nest.
It was my husband who trained me,
took me miles from home,
left me to find my way back.
Anyone who tells you they mated for life,
sings a truer song when they call Death, death.
What can you do if a bird grows from your body
but wear it
as a great midnight life preserver,
a blue feathered buoy holding you aloft?
This is the mystery of house and home, of want and need.
As the bird caging my ribs evolved, my body lengthened.
I fed my children with ragged beak,
slept while they tried to fly.
Not grey wings, but a red dress.
Not fistfuls of hair, but sheaves of dry grass and sticks,
a fledgling dressed for flight.
When your chest cracks to reveal a mourning dove,
what can you do but love
your hollow bones,
hide the shell of home beneath your wings.
