pigeons

and doves

What constitutes humanity?

That golden finch that flew into the window above the cafe and fell

at my feet, I’ll never forget her eyes flattening.

I scribbled his name to test my ink levels for 16 years.

If he was just a cat, why is his absence

A void I can’t fill.

And what of the doe on the shoulder of the freeway and

The spider on the bottom of your shoe.

Do they not lay on the conscious

For you do not lay them to rest.

Let death be kinder

Than man*

And if man’s heart is the largest,

What fills the extra space?

Greed and waste

That a subway rat could not dream of.

A version of love

that another creature will always outweigh.

It costs us all the same to be gentle

But it costs more of us not to be, I think.

It seems it has cost the pigeons their humanity, that they are not doves.

This lump in my throat

Will grow so large

It chokes me straight to the grave

One night

when the moon calls for the wolves

And the red-bellied robin that often visits the balcony.

Is there a spectrum of grief and ignorance that souls lay on?

And if we are on the left end of loss then

I ask

Where do the deadline dogs go?

I ask

What makes a soul worth the pain of grief

And why must the buck stare down the barrel?

Turns out,

The apex predator is the weakest of them all

Because he has everything to lose

And all the decisions to make.

We put my childhood cat in the dirt one year ago today, in the backyard of my father’s cul-de-sac home. His empty corner on the couch makes me think about how much room he took up in my life. The only constant I've known since I was a young girl was that one-eared cat. He makes me wonder, what constitutes humanity (and therefore grief)? In the eyes of a quarter horse, and Smokey’s, I have seen more empathy than most of us, people. It reminds me of this poem by Althea Davis. I hope you ponder on the humanity of creatures beyond humans. Love them just the same. Grieve them just as much.

*And God
please let the deer
on the highway
get some kind of heaven.
Something with tall soft grass
and sweet reunion.
Let the moths in porch lights
go someplace
with a thousand suns,
that taste like sugar
and get swallowed whole.
May the mice
in oil and glue
have forever dry, warm fur
and full bellies.
If I am killed
for simply living,
let death be kinder
than man.

- Althea Davis

PS: justice for pigeons!