blue-yellow mouth.
uproarious birdsong morning.
yesterday a mockingbird landed on the balcony.
last month it was a pigeon.
a construction crew is digging-up the street.
the birds are louder, still.
love-rotten morning.
without you what’s the point.
there’s leftover seed on the balcony.
the feeder you made never brought a wing.
now a family of pelicans nests here.
i watch them from the bedroom window.
on the pier i saw a man put a pelican to sleep by holding its beak and rubbing its belly.
i put the whole family to sleep.
bird by bird.
i doze off with the pelicans.
wake up, and they’re gone.
morning, again.
i miss you most in the mornings.
sometimes i don’t miss you at all.
a black-beaked wood stork blocks the groaning sun.
Brendan Walsh
Brendan Walsh has lived and taught in South Korea, Laos, and South Florida. His work appears in Rattle, Glass Poetry, Indianapolis Review, American Literary Review, and other journals. He is the winner of America Magazine's 2020 Foley Poetry Prize, and the author of five books, including Go (Aldrich Press), Buddha vs. Bonobo (Sutra Press), and fort lauderdale (Grey Book Press). He’s online at www.brendanwalshpoetry.com.
