A. Prevett


I thought 
to take my grief
by the neck 
wring it wring
it to produce 
typical something 
blue or 
stone brown but
out leaked 
the oil that rainbows 
hunger most for 
and in 
my failure I 
thought to 
look out the window
I thought 
I wanted beauty 
framed in 
a square that I 
couldn’t reach 
I thought 
to punish myself
with something 
and beyond me
instead the veiled 
pistons and axels of 
my minor god’s 
minor hand
a spoiled cream 
-dove resting 
still and dumb on 
a branch tired
I’m sure 
from all
the dove things
the pecking and flapping
tormenting the 
cats with their 
fleshy bodies but 
then my forgiving 
little geared god sent 
wind to shake
the branch shake it 
just enough 
for the dove to 
look around think
oh shit what
is happening to
me to 
my life oh
god what 
the fuck 
my life
my life

A. Prevett (they/them) is the author of the chapbook Still, No Grace (Madhouse Press, 2021). Their recent poetry has appeared in West Branch, DIAGRAM, and Colorado Review, among other journals. They are pursuing an MFA in poetry from Georgia State University, where they edit the journal New South. You can find them online at aprevett.com or on Twitter under the handle @a_prevett.