Shooting pigeons with B.B. guns
in the alley behind the house,
their cries as they hit the pavement
woke me from my dreams or
I can’t remember which.
I ran at you, pushing with all my might
and no one could understand my
anger at it all.
The killing of rats with wings,
but I knew them as doves who spoke
a different language.
So I catalog
this moment in my brains file as
another case of mistaken identity.