Diana always entered through the back door.
She reanimated the pall-grave mother we never knew

on a pay-by-day basis while Father maneuvered
lightning deals, the thunder of his Land Rover

rarely announced his return. He never found out
he had hired the Huntress. We followed her like geldings

until she caged us behind the kitchen window,
spectators who had much to learn of delicate craft.

In rare moments of sadness, Father would mention doves.
The bevy in the yard was the only feathered trace of Mother

in our memory. Diana taught us to lure them with corn
towards our hands, then the nanosecond art of twisting necks.

The stench of feathers dipped in boiling water
was cleansing before the ritual -

blood down the sink, approaching fire,
a simmering of sauces. For hours, she slow-cooked

meat and bones while the neighbor's cat
devoured heads, spat out beaks in the tiled floor.

We dressed as little deities for dinner.
And doves, served in individual plates, were ambrosia.

§ § §

Arlene Ang lives in Venice, Italy where she edits the Italian Niederngasse (www.niederngasse.com). Her poetry has recently appeared in The Pedestal Magazine, Literati Review, Tattoo Highway, The Adirondack Review and 2River View. She has received a nomination from VLQ for the 2003 Pushcart Prize. You can reach her at aumelesi@libero.it.

This piece was first published in INK POT #3 - 2004, a literary journal.

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