I am pelican mouthed
barely balancing above the sea, alone in the flocked feathers of gray. How old
am I really? Ancient and also fifteen, leggy in a linen dress, back pressed,
brick wall, alone in the group, dark in the blonde sea, but someone saw
me. Middle aged, still desperate to be seen, flip flops coated in sand
and feathers painted in memory like oil. Wash me. Please. Peel the
seaweed strands from behind my knees and pluck seashells off
my collarbone. I am skeletal and sinking, invisible in the beam
of your lighthouse. I am embarrassed in my need, like always,
fifteen, body curled closed, pelican beak, the nature of
nostalgia, the girl always bobbing alone, shivering
foam of a beach day tumble from dune to grass
to white sand flowing need
to fly.
Heather Truett holds an MFA from the University of Memphis and is doing PhD work at FSU. Her debut novel, KISS AND REPEAT, was released from Macmillan in 2021. She has work in Hunger Mountain, Whale Road Review, and Appalachian Review. Heather serves as editor-in-chief for the Southeast Review. Find out more at www.heathertruett.com.