five or six girls escape into the plaza. One knows
where a tiny nest holds pigeon eggs. They gather
on the furthest side of the stone fountain
that spirals in the center of Bellas Artes. . .
waterless yet a refreshing sight in art school.
Their fearless leader, the taller girl in pink tutu
(the rest wear black leotards, white tights)
dips a slender hand into the dark hedge:
giggles turn to solemnity as they circle
a cup of leaves, observing the fading light, then
drop to the nest below resting on the ground.
Like tendons beneath torn flesh or a bleeding
row of toes learning pointe, they seem to pull
together, shoulder to shoulder and peer.
Their confused little faces transform, disturbed,
eyes wide; all the pale brown skin revealed
where headbands secure dark slippery hair.
Meanwhile, the small alabaster lamb
atop the fountain, remains speechless:
it, too, knows sacrifice and the one cracked egg
that spills a muddied lifeless wingless dove.
©Poem by Jannie M. Dresser,
Berkeley, California
May 2008
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