Pelicans
Don’t fool yourself: you don’t know anything
about birds. So you’ve seen a documentary,
skimmed a book, can tell robins from chickadees.
You’ve stared across canyons, been pushed off a fence,
can guess what soaring is—falling in reverse—
but have you ever looked at a pelican?
Their beauty’s folded awkwardness, red
lidless eyes, mouths baggy as inflatable pants.
Their webbed feet push the brakes mid-air,
like cartoon ducks’. No cormorants,
no sleek-arrow hunters, they wheel above the surf
and drop like a stack of twenty pancakes,
gulp at foam and fish, then struggle to
take off again. Drying out on shore, they
wonder what they’ve done to deserve
such graceful wings.
You should wish to be so brainless,
inefficient, beautiful. You drove past
them once, on your way to catch a plane.
Flying alone, no longer among them,
you’ve returned to knowing nothing
about birds, or who you are. Just eyeing
other people, wondering what you’ve done
to deserve this life. Your only one.
by Derek Webster
from Mockingbird
Véhicule Press, 2015