I keep a white peacock behind my ear,
a wasn’t, a fantail of wasn’ts,
nevered feathers upon evered
falling all over the grass.
When a green peacock landed
on my shoulder to shimmy
its iridescent trills, everyone asked
if it was my first peacock.
It’s impolite to speak of the translucent tail
hanging down behind your ear
like a piece of hair brushed back
in a moment lost to thought.
To make the well-wishers uncomfortably shift
their weight by saying, No,
first I had this white peacock.
Because it’s not anyone’s fault
who can’t see the glaucoma
eyes on mist plumes
that don’t see them back.
So I say, Yes. And I say
how very emerald joy is,
how very leafed with lapis and gilding.