Poem by Vincent Peloso

VOICES, EGGS, WINGS


 

One: Voices

On the first anniversary of my mother's death,
I wake to crows outside.

"Oh," I think, "she's returned as a crow."
Harsh. Loud. Energetic. Pestering.
Then I hear something else, a

smaller, more musical, melodic voice -
a sparrow, warbler, or something like that - and I
smile myself back to sleep.

Two: Eggs

Later that very same day, my wife feeds me eggs
scrambled with chopped sauteed onions and red bell peppers
a sprinkling of grated sheep's milk cheese
and a dash of hot pepper flakes.

Digesting, I remember that once
I was one of my mother's eggs
before I was myself.

Three: Wings

At dusk, the soft rhythmic pulse of wings
approaches me from behind.
Overhead, one crow
strokes air as if it was water.
Celestial rower, sky swimmer, I
was alone until you arrived,
alone until I follow.

§ § §

Vincent Peloso lives in Arcata, California, works at the College of the Redwoods and for the past nine years has hosted The Mad River Anthlogy, a twice-monthly poetry program on KHSU radio, 90.5 f.m.

You can reach him at vfp1@humboldt.edu .

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