As Mourning Doves Persist

Inside I imagine puckered cups of butter cookies, paper that releases a sigh. But instead there may be fiction, wishes never reciprocated. Playbill of redundant arguments. One black glove, unlost, fraying. What vestibule on an emptied table, solo temptation labeled with another’s name. Guarded. Eventually recycled. Initials carved in melting snow. A tool unsuited to the task of prying open. Without valentine.

There is a certain stretch of highway where my brother was thrown.          Skidded on skin. His broken neck mended                    with chrome halo and screws. Farther north, a second brother did succumb. Falling to curve          at the fence line. Scent of whiskey in his speed.                    What he finally could not forgive, having changed his first name to Blue. His last to Freedom. Leaving behind          two daughters to mourn and an ex-wife who claimed him                    as the love of her life. Third brother hangs an army jacket on a simple cross    ...