3 Kingfishers

3 Kingfishers

Because it is okay to relate tales

of fugitive connection,

(they are not discounted by their nature,

and neither are most things;

we are defined more by our heft,

by our breath, whether it briefly was

or stoutly still is, than by

our moment's pedigree,)

because it is okay to reveal

that I have seen three kingfishers

in three days,

I will tell you that I lay

on Friday in the ice-plant,

by the water and the dead

white crabs,

with a tide-pool woman named

Mary Elizabeth covering my body

as a summer quilt.

And now I am in California,

I write letters from home and

drudge up dirge:

did that cypress hunch over the cliff's

sudden break? Did it stoop?

No, it

slouched. It slouched beneath the

weight of time unspoken.

The old homestead gazed at my

nakedness as the sea-grass protected

my tender soles, my

wobbling pink paws gashed by barnacles.

The kingfisher said, don't worry,

you won't drown!

And the seals slept.

I am ruddy and born of

the Gaviota coast.

Borne on the gray current

of central California, crusted

in the scum of brine and kelp's

slick plasma.

I am queer as a loon,

tracing the skies

with an optic wand

attuned to movements quick as

a fine sting,

sharp as a switch