by Dorisa Costello
There is no one
to greet the morning
with me, but a mourning dove
who’s lost her mate.
I watch her through the atrium window.
She coos into the hush of dawn,
calls for him this day,
this week, this forever.
In our silent communion
separated by double-paned glass,
she sings his name. I sing too
into the empty decade, now two,
without you and my little bird heart,
my drooping wings, my hollow bones—
they still fly, but the air
has lost its effervescence and
tastes a little of salt.
Dorisa Costello is Associate Professor of English and creative writing at Jessup University. Her poems have been featured in Plan B: A Journal of Reproductive Justice and The Postcard Press, among others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee for 2026.
Hawaii Pacific Review 