by Kasandra Larsen
We’re too tired to be polite, bound, tied to oily ground, unlike
bright clouds. My mouth is full of frogs. You’re thirsty, fishing
for honesty, not sentiment. When quiet, lost fog comes to visit
under skin. Try this: lift your head and listen. Stay civil. Lean
into the joke, know serendipity puts out high fire even
when there’s already smoke, diffused through a dry throat,
rolling in tight spirals to fill a sighing sky. Last night, we shot
flaming epithets, hit our clear targets, ignited hopes of rain
that wasn’t on the way. Instead, bumping us suddenly with a grey
glow, morning and some memory knows — cumulus will come
down to touch us, creep through the weeds. Cirrus might still be
between galaxies, too far for stretched skin, miles of webbing
to catch and save. We hope to blow fresh promises into
pelicans’ gullets, orphans’ coastal mouths, to swallow more
than whispers, breathe liquid made of new waves rippling out.
Raging Pelican Caput Mundi