DRUNK LIKE THAT
A cloudburst over the bird yard
turkeys gone to church—mouths agape
Grandma shakes her head, rheumy eyes
stare past something
I cannot see
She pours me Boston coffee, milk
and Folgers equal parts, I blow circles
across the top of the cup
Drown—they’d as soon drown
mean too—Grandma with her cane
shooed the cloud devotees back
to the barn. Her red Irish head soaked
and black round eye glasses smeared
with dust and rain.
Bare-footed and wrapped in Mama’s
hot pink shawl, tonight I crane my head
upwards and gawk at a moon
too large for consumption
but I drink until moon drunk
every bit as bright
as a turkey in the rain.
Mary Elizabeth Gillilan is the editor-in-chief of Clover, A Literary Rag. She leads writers groups at the Independent Writers’ Studio in Bellingham, Washington. Her novel, Tibet, A Writer’s Journal was published in 2007. Her greatest achievements are her two wonderful daughters. She lives in a hundred year old house in Bellingham with three rescue dogs and a cat.