I thought
to take my grief
by the neck
wring it wring
it to produce
something
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
marvelous
and beyond me
instead the veiled
pistons and axels of
my minor god’s
minor hand
revealed
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
enough
for the dove to
look
look around think
oh shit what
is happening to
me to
my life oh
god what
the fuck
my life
my life
Gloaming
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.