George T. Mormann

The Gift

happened.

Brought by a tamed macaw
that winked
perched on the mother’s arm who
posed for photos when the time of their day
saw the rift betwixt dusk and the waves they swam
spill over from the weight of her tomorrows latent sun.

Seduced out of her homesickness
she wore the emerald necklaces strung
on the walls of hot bungalows
for nine nights without the haze
wrapped around Meister Bräu bottlenecks
in South Shore taverns.

Her in-laws admired the boy’s eyes—
as blue as they remembered Warsaw.

His only memory of Illinois
was the idle of his Ford Pinto
that kept him on the side of the road.

So he flew the coupe

hitchhiked to Midway

found a job in California
and only calls for the holidays.