Chrysanthemum

Closure is not my strong suit

somehow my birdbrained heart

associates endings with death, chaos and calamity

—eternal madness in lieu of happiness.

My smug brain reckons my heart melodramatic

yet she addles pouring fear like maple syrup

over every buttery flapjack of a thought

glues me to precedent

the security of reason. Though starved, my brain

refuses to eat and remains frozen in the past

or

becomes a daredevil in slippers and pajamas—

savors and slurps without fear

defies death and reason

yields to reckless gullibility

fragility and whimsy like extra whipped cream.

An actual bird does not suffer such a birdbrain.

Take the intrepid dove that flew to my feet last night

when I opened my front door.

He walked past the trash bin and dog bowls.

The dog and I waited

for our visitor to reconnoiter and recognize

his wildness

our domesticity

entrapment

but he ignored all that

instead, pitter-pattered on pigeon feet

across the kitchen to the back door

which was slightly ajar

which was where he waited

for me

to open it—

I complied.

He hopped upon the threshold

then scooted like a Manhattan commuter

stepping off the train at his stop.

I closed the door gently behind him

as if seeing off an old friend

rather than the holy ghost.

The next day I found his calling card—

a small fan of white feathers

a chrysanthemum.

photos: Bell tower (1731) by Cathédrale Ste-Réparate, Place Rossetti, vieux Nice
my kitchen floor, 15 rue du Pont Vieux, Vieux Nice, 2018