They lift the doves from their cage so gently,
so deftly holding them across the chest.

As if they were born with birds in their hands,
these pigeon sellers.

Will anybody buy the speckled male?

He puffs his proud neck, fans his tail,
and bird blood fills the rings around his eyes,
but he can’t seem to find room for his wings.

I’m passing by to look at the pearly irises,
the hood, the waxy white cere.

The pigeon fanciers pay no mind to us –
they breathe out mist in the cold,
their souls locked in the cages.

That’s fair enough.
It’s beautiful that way.

Cramped in these clothes meant for public eyes,
they are smoke, ill at ease,
staring down at their shoes,
and can’t seem to find room for their wings.