A post I read on someone else's blog reminded me of this poem. I wrote it long ago, but I still like it.
I gave you love,
a wild, grey-dappled pigeon
with a green, iridescent neck.
And you said, "Where the hell will I keep it?"
I started to tell you that pigeons walk on ledges
or fly above the traffic,
while we stand below on the sidewalk
tossing bread crumbs.
But the moment you felt it stretch its wings,
you squeezed it in your hand
and strangled it.
I refuse to take it back,
the cold body and twisted feathers.
So I leave it on an altar
to wait for resurrection.