At the end of the press conference,The dodo shudders into fresh-cloned feathers,takes its breath, its moving form.The scientists have set up a small podium.It pads there, silently.We have some questions.
Such as: what was the origin of your name?We have theorized about the Dutch for fat-ass,or perhaps the Portuguese for foolish,so called because you came out of the forest, fearless,to meet the boats. Or, are you named for your cry,which we always have imaginedas like that of the mourning doves
We listened to while drying brown-flower Corningwareat our grandmother’s kitchen window.Those high-lead plates are gone, now,and our child selves, and our grandmother,of course – but also that home town,that house, the elm tree in the yardand all trees like it. Too sad, the doves cry, oh, oh, oh –
What…
