The pelican at the front desk
Was enough to make you weep.
Beak stuck with violence
In the breast.
Blood welled out the clay, and down
To clotted tongues, more smeared beaks,
To red and ready maws. Blood
Given up for blood.
Her chicks were slight beneath her bulk.
She seemed shrunken by their wants.
They were made to make us sob, so
Blame the artist. Croak and shrug.
Just know neediness is their nature.
They must grow, before they give
Like the sculptor at the desk,
Kneading at his chest,
Slick with my salt water.
