Double Life – Stephanie Yue Duhem
July 31, 2021
“Dove” is not the plural of “dove,” my dear—
no, it is not like “deer.” Above, the clouds
part like us, skittish as hands.
You announce each breath of bluebonnet,
each flush of cheek. I answer you with
silence, shelter my hair with my pink
mask. This is how I ask you
to my mouth—this cloth
that grazed my skin like skin. Now,
we won’t speak again. Now,
I will scrub your poems like vases
Your wife. Your children.