Poetry

Can your words find the color 
and smell of a manslaughter 
in an unholy stampede? 
 
Head bowed, the handcuffed activism 
walks on the street. Now pops 
up the moon from forficated clouds. 
 
A decoy was sitting on a tree 
with a stunning gaze 
to watch the lewd behavior ― 
 
of a mirror engaged with a 
self-portrait. Alphabetically 
the breast milk spills ― 
 
before you arrive without 
mouth. A celebration 
starts today for an unborn.