Babylon Honda
By Joe Robitaille
It was a red dove said the deacon
that flew from the room out the
door and down a Gullah tongue
on its back like on a water slide
and out into a Ramada Inn
wading pool at night. It's a
red dove said the attendant that flew
from the little blue chapel into
the red hilled limits like most
things, stuck to nothing and not even
a little bit hurt. It was
a red dove he said ate bees
from calla lily in colors grown
penitent and blue with night.
The red dove with the night left
on its neck was told to us of words
by the crows hobbled into
packs. It was a red
dove with a song down deep in his craw
that kept us up nights, a tune nesting
out in the boondocks blue gullies.