Water Can’t Roll

As cast in copper, pelican reflects.
Pale plumage tarred brown. Preening
for naught: water seeps in, chills. Tacky
slickness coats each barb. Her beak,
tipped bloody once, wears oil like cheap
lipstick melting in Floridian sun.
Iridescent from afar; from afar, in piety.
She never did feed babies from her breast:
not a martyr but a mother, mouth not ax
but sickle. She reaps what we ess-oh-dubya
so what of it—life forms resurrected race
to the surface, delivering the eucharist
[Greek eu for well, kharis for grace]—
no. This well less crucifix, more
quick fix and destruction in equal measure.

First Date

A tea light forlorn in its amber glass
awaits a spark that will not come. The sun

of summer’s evening saunters in without
a reservation, nests upon the swaddled bread.

The basket plus a bottle (mid-tier red),
two settings, candle, flowers, pretense, nerves—

the table’s full. He talks, but the shallow dish
of vinegar and olive oil consumes her attention.

Tahitian pearls like marbles roll
atop the slippery green, shadows below.

She chases one to the ceramic lip,
balsamic dyeing holey

sourdough. The earthy, yeasty bite entwined
with the cab’s lingering finish: luxury. She chews

and sucks, tasting from tongue and cheek
and gums; the flavor, mouthfeel. Those thick legs,

the peppery bite. Her cheeks are red. Into her lap,
the drifting, sleepy sun has crawled,

a purring housecat, entitled, knowing.
She’ll seize the bill when it comes, intimate their separate

paths ahead, assume a distant tone.
And as they say goodbye, she’ll be taken

abruptly by the grays in his copper-wire beard—
like early snow on fallen leaves.

April 17, 2024

About the writer

Ellen Orr is a writer and teacher residing in Texarkana, Texas. Her work has previously been published in the Amethyst Review, BarBar Online Literary Magazine, Grand Little Things, and Moss Piglet.