blue

pelican with blue eyes like seafoam stands

pondering that best choked essence we left

carved into the plastered walls of Rosecliff Drive, a

moment when memory developed from independent

images still collaged in my heart because once,

my drunk of a mother smeared eggshell white paint

along the zipped closure of that cerulean jacket

worn to showcase the isle of those eyes and her hand

dripped with collided worlds, embarrassed reality

conflicted with what should have been forgotten so

her smile spread cobwebby from smoker’s corner to

full out laughter, ignorant that she’d ruined a moment

sitting in the back yard crab apple tree in summer with

sun fading against the long sad wail of

her daughter solo and floating downstream,

a bloated barge of Tennessee castoffs

and Pennsylvania coal dreams, his were the only eyes

trailing dreams strong enough to hold scents like the

aging gondola floating between hand in hand options

we learned sovereign pride.