two carrier pigeons perch on your balcony across the alley. the street market below is noisy so you just wave and attach something to one of the birds. i put out some breadcrumbs and you send it over. there’s a photo of you parting each wing of your iridescent blouse; your hair crashing against your chest. there’s a letter inquiring about a clothesline. i fold it, pocket both, and nod with a smile. you toss me the line and pulley and i mount them to my fire escape. i cleverly fashion a pin from a paperclip, jot down and attach a grocery list for dinner, and wheel it back. you read it blankly, hang your blouse, and retreat inside – either disinterested, or misunderstanding.
i put out some breadcrumbs.
i shut my window.
when i return from the street market, i pour and swish gamay, suck meat from the breast of freshly-braised squab
and hang the iridescent feathers on the clothesline
with a smile.