ISSUE 6 · SPRING 2011
Part Pelican Or, God, As We Understood Him ROSE HUNTER
P., who, having shat his pants shuffling in with webbed feet all five foot two with oiled feathers eighty pounds of him, in brown and beige tie dye this week, “Army Surplus” T the air around him a thorny prospect; P., who says he wants to take care of the children (why the ones most incapable, taking care of anything, who say this; pity the children) – P., who, in the latest example of the lunatic’s misplaced role within our asylum takes in Mr. Ice Cream or is taken in; it’s unclear – P., who, eyes glinting tough ridges and broken beak, outstretches his stubby wings, the jolt in his legs a false lift off, on the pier of the beach they call, Los Muertos. |
More of Rose Hunter’s writing can be found at “Whoever Brought Me Here Will Have To Take Me Home." Her first book of poetry, to the river, was recently published by Artistically Declined Press. This poem is from a new book of poetry she has completed (unpublished). She is unsure where she will be when you read this, but suspects it will be somewhere in Mexico.