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A Dove's Flight
The house stinks
like a zoo in summer,
while upstairs her man sleeps on.
Robe slung over
her arm and the
cradled hymnal.
- Rita Dove
The house stinks
like a zoo in summer,
while upstairs her man sleeps on.
Robe slung over
her arm and
the cradled hymnal.
Looking to the window,
She waits.
She waits for
the missionary of hope to
come knocking at her door
with a novel on how to fix
the burdens of her life.
But she’s been waiting.
She’s been waiting since
the pawned ring was
slipped onto her dirt covered
finger.
She’s waited through the nights
Where she grasped the knife
in her hand as her man
walked through the door
in a hostile rage.
Her fingers slipped through
The pages of the hymnal.
Looking for something.
An answer, a sign, a hope.
And when her eyes lifted
to the window, she saw
A white dove land
on the broken clothesline.
It sang to her.
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This is an open theaft poem that is based on Rita Doves' Sunday Greens