Karla Huston

Doves at the Edge

Sitting on the icy shore
of my heated birdbath, they look

a little confused, feathers puffed into fluffy,
gray parkas, they hunch shoulder to shoulder

seem to squint into bright light glinting
on snow, tails balanced in water.

And today they are gloomy angels perched
on the wire above the garden, wings open,

spreading to gather what they can,
beaks moving to some unheard story.

They balance like clothespins, tails steady
as rudders, holding them asea in the morning air.

This Tornado Loves You

Neko Case

This tornado loves you, doesn’t want you
to forget, so it leaves
a sign each time it touches ground.

This soft breeze loves you, too,
so much it’ll sift through your screens
at midnight. Sometimes it loves

to see you sweat. This blizzard loves you.
See how it wraps you in cold, stings
with sleet. Misery appreciates you,

wants you to kneel before it
to beg forgiveness. This soft snow
loves you. It prickles your cheeks

and make you cry with cold,
fills your hair, your lashes with wet light.

Karla Huston is the author of A Theory of Lipstick (Main Street Rag) and seven chapbooks, most recently Outside of a Dog (Dancing Girl Press).