In The Belly of the Dove

A grain of hate,

a grain of salt,

a grain of hope

and a grain of sand.

The sand was in her crop to grind

the food that let her coo and fly;

she felt it the sands of time and life,

and opposing principles as well, 

all things being One, existence

and nonexistence.

A handsome hawk stooped to take her,

feathers flying in all directions.

He ate her slowly in an olive tree

while yet alive,

sand and more feathers falling down,

becoming part of the tree.

She didn’t hate him and he loved her,

feeling an inexplicable calm.

The grain of hope, she had picked up happy,

kicking around the feet of Jesus,

the day He multiplied loaves

and the people eating were careless of crumbs,

as well they might be with His recipe:

Hope! There was always Hope!

She and a few of her friends nailed it,

no doubt contributing to their stereotype.

The grain of salt was diffused throughout,

and some of it she got by eating that bread,

but a lot more from a winning whore

just off a vessel from India.

A splendid woman she was too,

with no compunction about her trade,

and salty dal in excess to share—

she allowed the dove to eat from her hand.

And so the dove liked sex, laying eggs,

minding chicks, food, flying, walking, roosting,

all the nameable pleasures of life,

knowing she was made for this world.

The grain of hate, you might have thought,

was picked up out of a neighbor’s field,

an acreage unlike our own.

But, no, it wasn’t; it was and always had been

part and parcel of the divine dove,

right in the middle of her bulging belly,

a spot of acerbity, utterly acid,

leading to excursions over neighbors’ fields,

where children played and picnic tables were spread

with love and delicious treats

vulnerable to her cloaca.

She shat then, thinking, 

Bombs away!