By Eli Parker

Artwork by Alli Rowe

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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.

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