BLACK DOVES

By Duncan Abel

The scars are not literal, still they catch

the corner of a glance that politely looks

away – and so does not see the shape of the black doves’ wings

beating beneath the skin’s surface; cannot

see the shape of bird beaks beneath the scar tissue,

biting and fighting for air enough to scream.

The scars are not literal, so people do not ask

the stories stitched beneath the half-healed flesh,

do not touch or feel the throbbing heat of infection,

prickling and itching beneath clothes worn to hide them.

At night, the black doves’ beaks tear

through the scars, releasing the frenzied

flying of birds trapped in too small a room –

wings applauding,

syrinx keening,

feathers brushing the face of

twisted sleep. By dawn's blue creep,

the black doves claw back beneath

the skin, scars sealed and re-healed, itching,

throbbing, avoiding the catch of an eye.

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