Out my window all morning the mourning
doves continue to fly with their preceding
directions as you cleave away
from disappointment. We’ve been warned
that travel is dangerous, but you
found calm unreachable
though you swim and spring and moon-
shine your senses. People everywhere
are choosing to wait in their perpendicular
boxes of home. I will not
tell you not to fly right off
the globe to deal with your ghosts
while we untie all our addresses and doors.
You are my sister, and all I can do
is maintain my voice.
News stories form a brick wall. The mourning
doves rise up then land, placing
their skirts down like small grievances.
They disappear to the tops
of the junipers. Tomorrow you could
find a colorless sleep. To find it
not with pills but by crossing through
rooms in our old house.
Up the stairs and first door to the right
where you can look and long
for the love you miss. That home
we shared was plain. White walls, brown
stair tread. Three stories and a basement.
Your room had a terrace you feared.
The other day our brother called with rage
in his shoulders when he discovered
your absence. He called as an action,
called to take hold. I suggested he send you
a letter to read while you recover.
He won’t do that. It’s spring. He is single,
bathed in persuasions.
No one has stopped tomorrow.
Every night I’ve watched the moon
signal to Venus and Venus
burn a bright pool into night.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 57 | Spring/Summer 2021