PIGEONS

On the roof of my nap and at noon that overwhelms her, they give shells and they give arenas pigeon footsteps...

The white siesta, the stubborn house and the sick woman who cries below, they don’t hear anise or stitching* of these pigeon footprints.

I raise my arm with the wheat, doting old mother, and then she sings and reverberates * my body full of pigeons. three i hold still and I hear the hoarse fight, until they fly fanned and I’m left alone dove...

I don’t know the voices that call me nor the nap that suffocates me: epiphany* of my skirt, dove, dove