By Eli Parker
Artwork by Alli Rowe
I see honeycomb
lifted on a bird’s wing
through the old streetside trees.
It rises West yet again
on a colonial raven.
I see my mother by my side,
wrapped in flannel and fifty-five years
as we admire its path.
We fight sometimes,
but she means the sky to me.
I see my brother is here too.
He wears a sweatshirt
because he is cold on the cobblestone.
Don’t worry, despite the cold,
we will all be warm again soon.
My sister will soon be here.
She carries her blonde joy everywhere.
She is my wonderful
mason jar and master’s degree
inspiration.
I have struggled recently with ownership,
for what, truly, is my right to anything?
But this, my family,
the ones without which I might not be literate to write this poem,
this I can call my own.
Still West flies the raven.
We see the honeycomb begin to fall,
and clutch to the clouds in the sky
as it dangles
across our gentle eyes.