Poetry

Jane and the Mourning Dove

by Elizabeth Newark

The dove lies in the palm of my hand,
monochrome at first sight–
subdued, meek, unexciting–
but with surprising
touches of color
on closer acquaintanceship.
For when I examine them,
its feathers are the color of cream
in coffee, mingled with gray
and cinnamon. There are dabs
of orange-red, like quotation marks,
decorating each cheek.
The eyes, once keen, are closed.
Gentle as a dove, they say,
and the feathers are soft to my fingers,
but the beak is slim and sharp
and its scratchy little feet
are clenched tight in death.
This I think is the Jane Austen
of the Bird World,
for so she must have seemed,
at first sight,
sitting at her writing table
in her neat cap and round gown,
spinning words,
a middle-aged spinster–
not jay, not magpie–
quiet, decorous, unremarkable,
but with surprising
touches of color
on closer acquaintanceship.
Her eyes were keen,
her wit was sharp
and her pen could scratch.

Elizabeth Newark is a Londoner by birth and a San Franciscan by choice. She was infected by Jane Austen at the age of 14. The senior class in her English secondary school put on Pride and Prejudice as a play one Christmas, and she found it so delightful that she immediately sought out the books. She has still not recovered from the infection.