Dove

Yes, I misconstrued.

Assuming this to be

a poem of peace,

the cessation of

our missiles; a round

from an AK-7.

I thought the

number after 6

was somehow sacred 

but it’s not. Every day of

the week that’s laved in

blood. Yours: the child

who will die in line for

soup, and mine—

arms raised to a

sun that isn’t there,

just a pall of

smoke from spruce,

their green of

flesh seared off,

a prayer of exasperation,

to a deity

who's been speechless

like the fog, choking

in its indenture.

And this dove?

Not the soapy

white of wings, a

sprouting twig of

olive in its bill,

but the girl who said

enough, diving

into sewage

once a fleuve,

splitting our land in

two, her skeletal remains

to one day lead

the poet to ponder

why she did what she did

when she did,

so serene

amid the minnows,

bundled by the current

head-to-toe.

Andreas Gripp

August 5, 2025

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