The brown pelican

Makhosazana Xaba

It took the harbour walk, four days later,
to stop wishing you were here.
Watching the hunting pelican,
near and distant boats’ lights all around,
flickering in the dark waters
of an early Key West night.

Standing, taking in the moist warm air,
I watched the big brown bird below,
the belly of its military beak ballooning,
sideways and downwards,
looming loose, pale pink,
catching dinner, seemingly impatiently.
I wondered was it getting enough?

Then suddenly, you were there.
I smelt you, felt your breasts against my back,
your broad right arm over my right shoulder,
your fingers playful on my collar bone.
I wondered where your left arm was,
wondered what expression was on your face?

The pelican, with hungry eyes,
guarding a beak as long as my forearm
was determined to go to bed on a full stomach.
I wondered are you wet?
The pelican was and also the minute, dark-grey fish
restlessly wiggling in the nest
of the meeting place of its mighty wings.

I wondered how long will the fish’s luck last?
My luck stayed with me
as I sauntered up Simonton Street
back to my room at Pearlsrainbow,
the solemn night embracing my gait.
I savoured the moments
and thanked the brown pelican
for delivering you to me.

LitNet: 31 January 2006

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