Women  

Since the beginning, women were sharks,
rocking their pain and causing waves in the ocean.
On moonless nights, their hearts throb; by morning
their love floods the shoreline.

A woman is a finicky shark, swimming
in a male dominant sea of obscurity — waiting
to swallow man’s fish-eyed soul
or fillet him of all living lies.

My blue angel

In all the circumstance of delight and grief,
my bottle bum is punctual in picking at my garbage
each morning. Embracing beer cans like a lover,
he clenches each aluminum can to his heart
before placing them into his stolen shopping cart.

His tattered blue polyester suit, unboxed
by someone long ago, whirs behind him,
like the frayed wings of a fallen angel; thick hair
like static-electric fur reaching for the empty sky.

On warm windy days, his presence
makes me feel like someone just pissed
in my nostrils, and though I gasp for air, I dare not blink —
for I fear that I might miss
his gullish blue wings take flight.

In The Fray Contributor