Archive > Vol. 3 no. 2
Colleen J. McElroy
Shelley at Sequim Inlet
Gull you never were a bird to float
on balmy breeze high on a manure pile
you are king your feet planted firm
as a farmer’s boots the smell suits
your dirty white coat bird that is gull
you are no romantic speck hovering
in search of scraps warm rot or rust
dirty bird you bully this northwest coast
and any other that offers loot heavy-winged
you circle spews of foam as if some great
gossip nailed you to the spot hawking
for gang wars keeping the neighborhood
awake just to break your brother’s back
What gall you have gull
What open lust and luck
What single eye and hip-broke walk
no petal soft bearing whips you toward garbage
fighting’s your only relief from the constant
call for food and heaven is the air
alive with the smell of dead things
come on gull voodoo caller of the sea riffraff
faker we know you despite your shrill delight
your cracked-beak squawks say you’re gray with fear