I, on the other hand, invite
the pigeons to my poems—

To smear each one
so the words are no longer antiseptic—

Better smudged by droppings
than sit pretty on white pages

Nothing lasts forever—

I want each letter
the opportunity to taste dung,

I want the air to smell foul,
the letters to fade,

And ink to bleed
into the page

Like a painter’s palette
creating new hues

Like a body in the earth
bearing maggots

Readying the soil
for a rich harvest

Like a lover’s sticky fingers
bearing human scent

I invite the pigeons
to bless this page.

— © Abraham Menashe