I wonder where the seagull goes at night,
where she lends her strange pink feet.

I wonder where she finds warmth, devotion,
toward something, anything. (And to what end?)

I wonder where the sick gull goes,
does she know how close she flies?
Is there a sense of doom,
impending, does she seek her homeland?
(Does she even have a home?)
The dock where she found a lover,
oh, that dark grey morning, now he’s gone.
(Does she want to be alone?)
Out in the open, airing herself
on a television screen, life is hard.
We watch her sometimes.
I wonder if she misses her webbed
footed lover, the way he mewed.
How they drowned that eagle together.
How they tugged his body
into the harbor
and never looked back.
And you thought of
how easily she could
have drowned you then too.
Is it love?
Is it fleeting?
(Was it ever anything?)
I wonder where she
laments on Saturday evenings.
If she sits by the shore
or if she floats in the water,
watching lights reflect off the boats.
I wonder when the seagull dreams
at night, if she can sense how soon
she will die.
If she dreams fondly of the grey dock
and the eagle. Or if she reimagines memories.
If she wallows in regret.
Is there anything she could have
done differently?
I hope to god not.