Six white doves on the windowsill
Bleached bruised ceramic silk and tar
Bodies cloaked in redemptive wings
They sit, and ponder.

Like old Georgian grandmothers they ruffle
And coo spastically, shoving from left to right and
Back again, an aviary abacus
They’re so smooth, these birds
Frictionless and fluid,
The color of old bone.

This is the house of marble,
This is the house of God
Where holy tokens quietly collect dust
The birds rustle with a dry thwush, thwush,
But Christ, condemned to the cross, turns a blind eye
To the intrusion.

The doves cry for the Mother
Shattering the pious silence with their song;
So sweet, so empty,
In the church abandoned by all.

Six loud shots echo in the light
Six red stains on fragile white birds
Some take flight while others lay dead
Wings outstretched, the sky a bitter blue
A keening noise on a soundless day
And the dust falls.