By Eisder Mosquera
Angelfish perturb
the area
around pink gauze,
are the details
of a threaded
diamond string
and its fake
catachrestic applause.
Like that of the angelheaded
beast spreading
its wings, as if to swim
under the light
of the glowworm
and hyacinth,
the fish are oratory
and not.
The pulchritude
of bombazine
on a shattering
geoidal mid-afternoon,
dribbling from
sea rock to splint,
the wing tips
are hardly bleak
accoutrements,
their own swinging
by the bay of a chest
and a previous rock.
Here we are stranded,
pelagic with clot,
and the fish
burble with oratory
and I kind of like them
a lot.
Source: Poetry (November 2015)
Poet Bio
Eisder Mosquera is a handyman, parrot-lover, Pokémon fanatic, and an aspiring prankster who lives in Miami, Florida.
More Poems about Mythology & Folklore
Blade, Unplugged
It’s true: I almost never
smile, but that doesn’t mean
I’m not in love: my heart
is that black violin
played slowly. You know that
moment late in the solo
when the voice
is so pure you feel
the blood in it: the wound
between rage
and complete surrender. That’s
where...
Pinocchio
Strand. String.
In this dream,
the paths cross
and cross again.
They are spelling
a real boy
out of repetition.
•
Each one
is the one
real boy.
Each knows
he must be
wrong
about this, but
he can’t feel
how.
•
The fish
and the fisherman,
the pilot,
the princess,
the fireman and
the ones on fire.
More Poems about Nature
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We are all ventricle, spine, lung, larynx, and gut.
Clavicle and nape, what lies forked in an open palm;
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Of Tribulation, these are They,
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— Emily Dickinson
Pained, permanent
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Exposed
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a Santa’s grotto
Jagged milk
quartz crusts
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all teeth
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toughened glass
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rock
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iron maidens