One Morning, Over Dove

My wife is not afraid of blood
or knives. She’s spent all morning cleaning
the doves Brother and I swept
from the soy bean fields beside our land.

She scrapes the hearts and livers out
with her fingers into a bowl and piles
the rest of the birds onto the table.
By the time I step out back to stow

the shotguns, she’s already filled a pail
with meat for the week’s stew and wants
to talk of love and children and time.
The whole while she builds a stain

on her forehead, brushing away a hair
that interrupts important points
of room temperatures and ovulations.
I wipe down my .20 gauge

and wonder at the tenderness
she holds in her voice while elbow-deep
in gore. The space between her words
and mine is enough to register

desire, and more than enough for her
to clean two doves, reaching her fingers
into their chests, popping the meat
out with a subtle snap.

*Jack B. Bedell is an Associate Professor of English and Coordinator of creative writing at Southeastern Louisiana University where he also edits Louisiana Literature, a nationally-recognized literary journal, and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. His latest collections are What Passes for Love and At the Bonehouse, both published by Texas Review Press (a member of the Texas A&M Press Consortium) and Greatest Hits (Pudding House Press). His recent work appears in the Southern Review, Hudson Review, Connecticut Review, Paterson Literary Review, Texas Review, Southeast Review, and other journals. He and his wife Beth have two sons, Jack, Jr. and Samuel Eli, and one large Labrador, Mocha.