by Tina Barry

Mother knows nothing of fall’s fickleness,
only the smog of medicine, tang of tired diapers.

To reach her, I pass nurses deluged in data,
residents wheelchair-dozing.

One summer, a mourning dove smashed
into my bedroom window, and died.

I was told the birds mate for life,
and its partner sang of heartbreak,

an innate awareness of loneliness.
Mother defines loneliness as a husband

too briefly known: Her great love. Or a scoundrel.
She’s a tsunami threatening tulips,

fitful as weather. I am too.
I’m young again, steering

a stroller, sleepy baby inside,
both of us dreaming of dinner.

A dove hurtling against the pane,
stunned by its sudden end.

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Tina Barry is the author of Beautiful Raft and Mall Flower. Her writing can be found in Rattle, Verse Daily, The Best Small Fictions 2020 (spotlighted story) and 2016, Trampset, The American Poetry Journal, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Gyroscope Review, the Fourth River, Sky Island Journal, and elsewhere. Tina has several Pushcart Prize nominations as well as Best of the Net and Best Microfiction nods. She teaches at The Poetry Barn and Writers.com.

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NB: Click on the title to open a page which contains an audio version of today’s poem.