by Ally Schwam
While I eat breakfast, a mourning dove
slams into my window,
trades her life for a crack in the glass.
I step outside to wipe away the blood.
I find her, neck twisted,
parted beak and black eyes
pointing towards the sun.
Her feathered body is so small
I can’t help but bury her
and let the fine dirt sift through my fingers.
I say no prayers.
I don’t want to wash my hands,
but I do anyways.
My hands don’t shake under the cold water
the way I think they should.
Ally Schwam is a poet, artist, and professional UX/UI Designer. Her poetry has previously appeared in Tupelo Press’ 30/30 Project, UMD’s Literary Magazine Stylus, and Poetry WTF?! She lives in Bethesda, MD.