by Grace
I was minding my own business
when it happened.
A flash of brown.
A single ringing blow, then
a dull thud.
That was all it took
to end the mourning
dove. How our window shook
to look upon its brutal work.
At least it was quick. A useless mercy.
To spend a life singing
just to go out making that sound.
To have the entire sky, wide open
and die trying to fly into a room.
I did the only thing I could: go outside
to make sure. I knelt by the lifeless body,
feathers all askew. It seemed to look back up at me.
Its eye a planet — gone
still, its final act
an accusation.
Days later, what happened
on the other side of the glass
never touched me.
I touch the window, stained now.
A casual stroke of red
like a hurried kiss
goodbye.
Grace is a queer Hong Kong-born settler living on the traditional and Treaty territory of the Anishinabek people, now known as the Chippewa Tri-Council comprised of the Beausoleil, Rama, and Georgina Island First Nations. Her sophomore collection, Be Water, is out in summer 2026 with Anvil Press. Her debut poetry collection, The Language We Were Never Taught to Speak, is a Lambda Award finalist. Find her online @thrillandgrace.
This poem previously appeared in Be Water (Anvil Press).