Daniel Haislet

She Had To Teach Me To Make Chowder

Her handshake concerned me

                                                    from the start,

constricted my fingers

in sandpaper, and questioned

                                                  my man-ness.

She said I should know two things:

how to make chowder;

                                       how sea-birds die. I said

I’ve watched a pelican die,

                                             late at night,

on all the beaches. She never believed it.

Serpentine necks press the head back-ward

against thick down. The beak

                                                  faces the tide.

Tides comes out of and into our poetry;

                                                                   like love.

But now

we’ve seen each others parts.

                                                 Words

mistaken in their meaning in that they are interpreted. And the love

                                                                                                     will be forgotten

In the logistics of relating. So we aim our beaks to the tide,

                                                                                                   with dignity,

to remember what it’s like to soar

                                                         over each other