Ode to a Pigeon on 81st Street
You faceplanted on the asphalt,
nose to the grindstone,
flattened forever by a taxi or box truck.
I don’t know but, baby,
this just happened because
your wingtips glistened a lip gloss
red that would almost entice a kiss,
so gorgeous no need to look away
from the gory details: your feathers
slicked back, steaming, spilled innards,
wet, grey, wanting. Were you trying to get
closer to Mother Earth? Performance art
perfected. You, silent train-rattler,
like all of us, dying to be a peacock.
! Your Chambers Are
occupied with love is abstract and cancer is not allowing blood to flow forward March is also to
spring forward an hour but not enough time for the tulips to bloom in your heart on my screen an
email crosses its path with pathology my polyps come in peace despite the riotous preparation
for a routine colonoscopy I will likely see another day for the daffodils to, die would I
in a month to give you 20 years? (y);
in a week to give you 10 years? (y);
in a day to give you 1 year?
I don’t k(n)ow.
Wendy Schaffer received her PhD in physics from Columbia University and MD from Cornell University. She writes from New York City where she also ministers to broken hearts as a cardiologist at a local hospital. She is a late-stage poet who first submitted for publication in January 2026. She is grateful to The Modern Artist, re•mediate, *82 review, Consilience and The Hong Kong Review (forthcoming), Sheila-Na-Gig and The Scarred Tree for honoring her poems.
