Hannah

This gentle press of cheek,
Warm hearth of humble deprivation--
My little turtle dove.

Her song and
Twisted stomach of denial
Shuddering clutch as starvation
fails.

whistling notes peruse the bodies
Bloody as she seeks her God
Salient aged, & faithful as
Only youth & bitter-rooted beauty may allow

she sits
With chin in tightened palms, awaiting
Tidal shame bellowed
By dirge to murder time

& squinting frustration away, tears
To feed her molting messengers.
Her winter pigeons.
Hungry those birds.
Those gray & hungry little birds.