Still Life with Magnolia and Dove

She says she wants to leave except her bones
are dissolving in her back so she can’t

even walk; I know she’s not writing
these phone numbers down.

Its’ her own story, I have no business,
but when she says I haven’t

told anyone, I move the receiver
from my ear, already knowing

what she’ll say as she describes her husband’s
forearm-block-of-wood slamming

her head while outside the magnolia opens
flower by flower, each branch

bouncing when the petals spring apart.

Near my window, the dove turns toward
the sun and the pink streak

on its neck surprises me, I’m touched from all
angles by pink radiation—

heartsick. And just because I once thought
I’d die, it’s not the same. If I ate

light is pressing through a tree and reaching
my window, and I am

satisfied, joyful, though I know there’s
nothing there, just light,

announcing itself, coming through.


From GLORYLAND (Alice James Books, 2005)