In Plight by Rachel Kalyna

Pull the shorebird
from its home; notice:
Pelican has a battleship
in his throat. It is bitter
and absurd.
He wants to sink
below the tin-rain, spit
torpedoes at barracuda,
sip its fresh salt again.
The risk of madness will fray
brown pin-feathers.
Pelican does not comprehend
an unfamiliar hue.
He does not feel the ocean
beyond battery weight
and whale bone,
erosion and decay.
Only the shifting fever-wave
can polish his name.
Pelican is a maelstrom
of mistake, with metal toes
tipped for navigation.
Magnetic North,
petrified; too fixed upon
passing. The tanker
has elapsed degree,
enough spin.
Siphon, pipe and blow
the horizon back
several more miles
before inspection.
Pelican cannot count how
many days have gone.
He will forget and dive
one last time. Below the slick,
deeper still, to find another way.


Rachel Kalyna, Atlanta, GA, USA