he spoke of doves and I heard morning:
collared necks of celebrants hewing benedictions.

straightened in the way that grasses are, a man of soil.
joisted earthenware. a cool dry place.

songs already counted, he kept them in a billfold—
pensioner to meadowlarks, calling fee fee fee.

I had a grandfather. just the one. he kept a wake for morning.

Kaitlin Ruiz was raised on sunscreen and field guides in Texas, where she received a BA in English & Communications in 2017. Writing and teaching between global crises, her work has appeared in places like The McNeese Review, Channel, and The Curator. She lives in Pennsylvania with a cat named Tarragon.