top of page

lucie berjoan

Two pigeons

My downstairs neighbors gutted

their place, stripped it

until our floor shook,

the vitamin bottles dancing

off the shelves. Large men appeared

in the weird alley through

bedroom and bathroom windows

to breathe smoke, call girlfriends, yelling

into cell phones on lunch breaks.

I couldn’t focus or fuck

my girlfriend or myself

with their big voices echoing

so I fixed a thick blanket

to the window

drowned the room

in smudgy light.


A couple weeks after they left,

two pigeons arrived in a flurry

and we watched together,

one of them convulsing

on the shit-smeared nest,

the other nearby, ready

to puke in the grey newborn’s mouth.

Iron particles in their beaks

keep pigeons aligned towards North,

built in compasses pulling them

from place to place rather than memory.

My mom visits later that month,

brings books I left behind,  

and I find an old postcard

from you between

the pages. I remember  you

homesick as a child,

something I never was.

Lucie Berjoan is a poet and writer based in New York City. Having recently graduated from a Critical Studies MA at the Sandberg Instituut (NL), her work seeks ways of broaching critical and theoretical boundaries. Most recently that has taken the form of queer memoir as poetry and the implications and nuances of what that means. This manifested in a chapbook titled Changing Clothes and a collection of poetry titled Formed, Former Selves. You can find more of her work at her website:

bottom of page