By Sarah Lilius
Killing Peace
or Zenaida asiatica
He is stench of memory, collective,
he seeps in.
This frail mess can’t be shoved
through ragged time.
They’re lost in passing, the changing
of love, a water cycle,
a concrete circle, his favorite
is the third house down sixth street.
The stuck drawer, next to a stained
bed, is ready to open, her feathery
body, heat of nerves exposed.
She won’t dance, can’t fly
the distance of gray, her nest,
somewhere south of anywhere.
Call this hunt. His rifle, ready for fun,
for an ending, his control is vehement.
Condensation of youth etched
on a tiny wishbone, snap
from a simple oven roast,
not enough to nourish one man.
She no longer commits to the search
for a haven, a place to lay her eggs,
to let go entirely,
to nourish another.
Sarah Lilius (she/her) is the author of the poetry collection, Dirty Words (Indie Blu(e) Publishing, 2021) and six chapbooks including, GIRL (dancing girl press, 2017) and Traffic Girl (Ghost City Press, 2020). Some of her publications include Boulevard, the Massachusetts Review, and New South. Her website is sarahlilius.com.