There's something sort of disquieting about pigeons. I'm a New Yorker, so they're incredibly mundane to me, but if you actually start to think about them. Something eldritch, something fae. Pigeons have no fear. I wrote this while thinking about Mary Oliver and all her animal poetry, and also about the framing in some of Richard Siken's poems. What would pigeons say, anyway? Birds in poems can be a lot of things, but in this case I wanted to capture their weird, wise, uneasy energy.
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