Poems and Power: Sept 3


your throat is filled with water.

the pool, so turquoise it

sucked every color

into it’s depth until any

other hue was

a lie.

your wings — rocks,

the only gravity for

your bulbous body.

and then we simply, dive in.

the California sun leathery

on backs, slick babies–

overgrown men.

your wet feathered wings

slip past her, that darling girl,

with a shriek.

you’re only a flapping memory

of what a razor point weapon

can do.

until we all discovered we can pull

you apart with our fingertips.

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