Morning Dove

Aleigha Kely

If, when counting colossal breaths,
the symmetry proves
too much, call down to me the
ways you’d like to further vanish.
Take me as a place you’d
travel to, when the swallows

go. All I can know about
you surfaces briefly, as if caught
in some oblivion. Some mornings,
I wake to gentle breath, and think in
soft touches, wonder where your
mind goes each night.

I could keep reaching for certainty
in response to this
grow-old-with-me,
but why land there? Let’s
step out somewhere more
blue-evoking, or bend the

river north. It isn’t
too important to decide
where to build the farm,
or the house with exposed wood;

the ceiling fan turns slowly above me.
I picture linens rippling in gentle
heat. Somewhere far away, a morning
dove perched on the moss fence
sings his holy tune.

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Love Me in a Different Language

If you’ve forgotten how to love me, mi amor, then please recall the words that once upon a time were softly sung to you,

that were crooned so sweetly at your mothers breast in the land that bore your father and his father before him.

Draw near to me, amor, and we’ll map our bodies with the sounds of passion,

where we’ll learn to love anew in your mother’s tongue, passed down from generation to generation.

Let us ink our hearts in nuances of sun-baked streets and moonlit trysts
in dialects that knew of love and loss long before our stars were lit,

that echo still of golden skin, and raven hair, and lips that taste of briny seas.

If you’ve forgotten how to love me, mi amor, let us learn to love again in languages unspeakable.

It is said that one changes personalities to subconsciously reflect the language that is being spoken.

Your Darkest Night

It was black and endless and lined with teeth all over.
Descending like a wet blanket,
every breath you drew was a shudder.

*On a separate note, I’d like to reiterate just how much I dislike textual misunderstandings. Yesterday was the first time I got true hate comments on my blog. What I thought was carefree banter somehow caused the other person to devolve into calling me something vulgar and tell me to burn in hell. The fact that I don’t entertain phone calls from married men may have factored into this whole debacle. Why are we always so apt to screw things up so royally? It’s one thing we can always depend on to do spectacularly.