Little

The little dove hovered in the girders

Of our prefabricated shed.

We could hear its wings pealing

Against the aluminum siding

Dad was able to snare it, wedged

In a corner between two metal plates

And his calloused hands

Which caressed the little feathers

I asked what we were going to do

With it as he bent its neck

Gently back over a little bucket

And plucked a few feathers away.

He said we could cook it

Like a squab and took his pocket

Knife to nick a little slit

In the exposed skin of the neck.

Blood seeped out in little drops

Like red tears, By the time

The dove relaxed in his hand

There wasn’t much in the bucket.

He gave it to me to pluck off

All of the dull gray feathers.

I remember how warm that still

Little body felt in my hands,

How unyielding each feather

Was, especially on the wings

And, when I was finished,

How little there was left.

Though I took it to mother to cook

I was glad that I never saw

The little squab upon our table.

How could I have eaten it?

Revised, July 2013