Ghazal With Mourning Doves, Joshua Tree

Desert, cities, suburbs, steeples: at my childhood’s core, mourning doves. I, too, keen reflexively; what is a morning without mourning doves?

Describe a thing, like a toe in black Converse tracing a dust-circle. The desert yields to circumference, as do the folding wings of a mourning dove.

Why “Joshua Tree”? Early Mormons saw in its shape the prophet praying. Joshua lifted his arms to God—or, if I may—a mourning dove.

Everywhere, crystals. Adventurine, agate, quartz spires: $5. My daughter drifts away from the market, distracted by mourning doves.

Ooo-whee hoo, hoo, hoo, indeed. My song is in your throat, I telepathize to the mourning dove.

Describe the thing. The wine last night tasted of lemons in the terroir. Or was it the desert pang of mourning dove?

Jo, you are no sister of pigeon; the closest you get to flying is riding a bike. Never mind: you are an oceanic drunk, like the dear mourning dove.