Advice to a Friend on the Edge of Divorce

P.J. Stanskas

Do your remember when your brother

set the homing pigeon coop on fire?

It was during the day,

when they were flying the currents

above your childhood, oceanside house.

Most scattered when they found the ashes,

took refuge in elms

or rust-painted rain gutters

and watch the ashes swirl omens

in the wind of one bird's wings.

She tread air in the space

where her pen had been,

refused to believe the evidence

or disordered wire and embers below her.

She strained to keep

regular, wing-beaten time

in the air cage she constructed

for herself of memory

and wistful bits of dust,

of smoke and ash pulled from the air,

until she fell into the wreck, exhausted.