CURSE IV.

Someone overturned
the pigeon’s nest,
dropping out the eggs
onto the fire escape.
They smashed
against the iron landing,
instantly killing
the half-formed creatures
among the yolk and albumen
and broken bits of shell.

I’d seen the mating
atop an air conditioner –
how they twisted
their iridescent necks
around each other
in passionate embrace.
The feathers shone
emerald green, soft
fuchsia – how beautiful,
I thought, and saw
how he mounted her.
I felt privileged
to see it and carry
the memory away.

Last year,
of their three eggs,
one rolled out
of the nest,
one was rotten,
and one hatched.
I remember it
right after birth
so pitiful and scraggly,
it seemed unlikely
to survive,
but it grew fast
and in one day
learned to fly.
From the first,
awkward efforts
I wondered if
it’d make it;
it was gone
the next day.

But this year
there are no
more eggs,
no chicks
or fledgling
to leave the nest.
Those who despise
pigeons
will despise me
for writing this:
their life
is as worthy
as any other.