Stuffed Pigeon

Damion Michael Higbie

He's doing it again, pressing his glass eye

to the window, as if the pupil might recall

the shape of a branch, trigger enough heat to melt

a hole in the morning layers of frost.

Somewhere along the way, he's lost

a wing. I want to say, Georgia:

that cross-town move to the east side

of Macon for a girl with a gypsy mouth,

the one I imagine in that old place

on Orchid Street, dancing,

shirtless, to a tambourine. And soon enough

it all closes in--a canopy of oak

and Spanish moss, the missing wing

fashioned with hair

around her neck. Baby, she hisses,

letting her tongue find that space

between her teeth. Baby. . .until the pigeon leans

another inch toward the glass.