Pigeons on a Town Square
The shower has stopped. In the town square,
pigeons, out from eaves, pecking the crumbs and litters, like
married confidantes all back to the mothers’ to share bedroom gags.
Even peasants, roving under the trees, also regard these birds.
Their baskets emptied; otherwise, they would not give a hoot,
but now they think they should, so as to feel the civilized life.
They and tourists are mutual objects for gaze,
while the latter, coming to pilgrimage through pictorials,
have long before thought of themselves in this spectacle.
Even their blackness is a special black, spotted plumage
becoming white, or at least on the way to some sort of patterns.
So alive! They multiply without making physical love.
If they do, they go spiritual foremost, never animal,
never the one-on-and-behind-another posture.
Oh, how romantic! A love in flight!
You have to agree that men can never come so pure.
The man who is cynical about pigeons is dirty-minded,
for his shrewdness hurts people, especially women, especially me.
I’ve merely displayed a little happiness and only occasionally
I coo on bed, and these do not mean I am diffident.
I like wearing noire, as it makes me look elegant and noble,
and being a femme, what is wrong with a little added erotique?
So, you, nerd, do not try to put on an air of a dissident.
You are only a man, have an index finger and like to be sucked.
Admit it like a real man, and make me lovely and sexily pure.
Oh, by the way, you are neither a bird nor an ornithologist,
how dare you claim the knowledge between a feral pigeon and a dove?
August 25, 2007