The House of Doves
by Amelia Chandler-Lewy
The deer head has returned, the headlights catch stags that are not as afraid
as I am. The white house blares through the cedar, through the smell of darkness and wind.
We sleep in the back room, and there are doves on the walls, lines sketched onto pale;
in the morning, coffee and laughter. It is always so warm. In the day,
the geraniums and bougainvillea all spines,
all red and blatant, all soft at the edges. The violets on the bench, not as many,
as there used to be.
Later, I write. Later, we point
out hummingbirds and red hawks climbing in the yard. Later
when we are doing nothing at all, she calls me mija,
before she hears her mouth shape the sound, surprising her. The word creaks
from disuse. Out the window,
a deer is standing behind the hanging oaks.
Amelia Chandler-Lewy was once almost fatally impaled upon hundreds of sea urchins. She shares a birthday with Anais Nin, Nina Simone, and General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. Like all three, she has a fondness for silk pajamas.
