Robin Wyatt Dunn writes and teaches in Los Angeles.
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When I will live. When I will die. When I will live again. I drive back to Jerusalem. The guards don’t even blink now at my Israeli passport. The borders have become porous.
This woman. Sheep woman. Her teeth fleece, cheeks jewels, hair bordered in silver, her cluster of camphor. Thy dove’s eyes.
Dear black dove, fly with me, and take me away from this world, and all of its works, so I might be free. So I might never need do anything again.
The beams of our house are cedar, and our rafters fir. Our bed is green.
Black dove, be with my tonight, and tomorrow,
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The dove Columbiforme. Named so for its diving. So too was Columbus a diver, off the deep end, into new worlds.
Dive with me, black dove, off of the edge over the bridge, and see the world.
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You are black but comely as the tents of Kedar. Black as our curtains. The bundle of myrrh between your breasts. Between your legs.
Feed among lillies and let me die. I will feed them too.
Black dove, come with me. No matter where, but away. Take off your gauntlets and let go your fine steed, and remove the jewels from your hair.
The house of cedar and fir is pulled down, and set fire. Your hair is shaven. The smoke and the dust have blown over us, staining our clothes and our skin.
But you are black as a dove and drive on through any storm, hearing my heart.
Come through this storm with me and I promise you, by my troth, and my balls, by my hair, and my eyes, that I will comfort thee on the other side, and on the mountain after that, when we will see the whole world we have made, never to pass again, but still here, for us, for some moments, to stain your face with the sun, and the light of your laugh shall rain on me for days and weeks after, years after, even when I am alone.
“What is it?”
“I’m coming home.”
“Well, hurry up. I have things to do.”
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