JOSHUA POTEAT

Self Portrait as a Mourning Dove

On the side of a desert road
                                    a headless dove,
            its body a basket of ants,
                        basket of creosote stems.

To live at all is to grieve
                                    and from what life
            did we gain this trust,
                        awake each dawn

to find the bright air
                                    full again,
            rustle and coo
                        in the widening palms?  

   Contributor's notes
   Burning Instead of Beauty
   Fahrenheit Meditation
   Hitch-Hiking in the Dying South
   Our Memory, the Shining Leaves (Waterford Fair Civil War Reenactment)
   The Scenery of Farewell (and Hello Again)
   The Stigmata Rather than a Punch on the Nose
   Introductions

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