Neighbors

1 Minute Read Time

I thought the silver wire trees 
along the windowsills
were for aesthetic reasons


                                                 A minimalist idea of a forest 
structure for yet-planted flowers
naïve as a pattern
never intended to diverge

                                                 Hello, pigeon

Hello, iridescent 
neck of the pigeon 
Even with a neck


                                                 that changes hue at angles 

diffracts a purple glimmer
as you tilt & ruffle in the light 
we can still despise you


                                                 We can still despise you in the light 

And if we can despise you
what hope has a woman 
in green on a green chair

                                                 Passivity does not absolve objects

these indications:
You are despised
I am what wears me

                                                 Make land of my ledge and die

Those who believe 
boundaries are the only God 
worship these trees

Gabrielle Bates

poems have appeared in the New Yorker, The Believer, Ploughshares, Poetry Magazine, Academy of American Poets Poem-a-Day, and Sewanee Review. Her debut collection Judas Goat (Tin House, 2023) was named a Best Book of 2023 by NPR and Electric Literature and a finalist for the Washington State Book Award. Originally from Alabama, she is currently based in Seattle, where she works for Open Books: A Poem Emporium, co-hosts the podcast The Poet Salon, and serves occasionally as visiting faculty for the University of Washington Rome Center, the Rainier Writing Workshop Low-Residency MFA, and the Tin House Writers’ Workshops.

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