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.