Today I found a young pigeon in the garden. It was asleep for a very long time. When it started walking around with its eyes closed, I didn’t think it could fly. I didn’t want a cat to get it, so I put it in a box. I went in to get a drink. When I came out the box was empty. The pigeon was in the garden trying to fly. I put it back in the box and went to get something heavy to put on top. While I was gone, the pigeon flew out of the box and crashed into a gate. There was a drop of blood. I think it smashed the front of its skull just above the eyes. It looks a little flat on the top of its head. I brought the box inside and set it next to the fire. I dripped peroxide water on the gash and it kind of got better. He doesn’t open his mouth much. I don’t know if he can have seeds or just baby milk formula. I touch him too much. I worry I will hurt him. This morning, I dropped a cherry in the box.
ON GOING TO THE MAILBOX
I could tell the bird
by her savage calls
THE KILLING SHOW
For a long time, I watched a boy on the beach sneak up on a wounded seabird. He stepped slowly, gently as if through a maze of mines. When, finally, he towered over the bird floundering on its side, he pelted it with small, smooth stones. You’ll like me, cried the boy. You’ll like me! As the bird cried louder, the boy dropped heavier stones. The sun leaked. The waves claimed the bird and as our shadows grew larger, we all grew smaller.
Kristin Bock has an MFA in poetry from the University of Massachusetts Amherst where she teaches. Her poetry has appeared in many publications, among them VERSE, Columbia, Pleiades, The Black Warrior Review, Crazyhorse, FENCE, and Sixth Finch. Bock’s first collection, Cloisters, won Tupelo Press’s First Book Award as well as the da Vinci Eye Award.