J.B. Kalf

Seagulls

among the rocks. The ice. Those two
scientist lovers had found some gay seagulls. 
It was the 1970’s, so this really rocked
the boat. Few decades earlier, a translation

of Chekhov. Artist melodrama. But no seagulls
in the middle of Russia. That stuffed bird
could’ve been any in flight. As a child, I
went deep sea fishing with [the relatives].

A seagull pooped on my head. That
must’ve been when I turned gay. 
Hard to decipher. Or maybe it was the men
pushing me aside so they could reel in

the marlin at the end of my line. Fan of fins
glistening blue. Then hung from a hook.
A picture on [the relative’s] fridge of me,
[the relative], and some blonde man stranger,

the dock freshly covered in white bird
regurgitation. And the fish ten feet long.
Beautifully blue laying on the ice, waiting to be
chopped up and consumed in hairy bellies.

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J.B. Kalf is currently slipping on ice. Published or forthcoming in Beaver Magazine, The Shore, Poetry Lab Shanghai, Roi Faineant, Periwinkle Pelican, Inkfish Magazine, Hot Pot Magazine, Does It Have Pockets, #Ranger, and elsewhere. Prefers limes to lemons and can be found on Instagram @enchilada_photo and Bluesky @enchilada89.