Barren

(an imitation of Lucie Brock-Broido)

Throughout four acres of empty trees, a single mourning dove is cooing
For amaranth from its half-built nest, echoing between humid sheets of fog.

In the parlor of the manor, a young woman in a worn dress
Of black velvet twines her fingers in her lap and pretends not to cry

Over the empty cradle, the tiny leather shoes, her breasts
That ache in vain.