It's been quite some time since my last post, but I’ve been a slave to the pen. Thus far in 2013, I've had three rejections, two no replies (what’s up with that?), and seven pieces slated for upcoming publications, online and in print. The next few weeks I'll be doing some final edits on new fiction and poems.
A bit of bad news... looks like I may be out of commission for a couple of weeks due to health issues (which includes a surgery), but I should be back feeling better than I have in years. And that's great news.
And since it has been a while, I offer you a poem. Take care!
only anger swings a finger in this direction.
The subtle reflex of morning strikes electric perfection
as thought throbs arterial.
One bird, gray against the fevered veil,
speckles itself bright, then dim to burn quiet.
In itself it is common, but face is merely fiction.
Nature bursts forth a bouquet.
wings like grape surrender to wine;
amber branches flag rubies of blackened oak;
shadows perfume indigo in dawn-born covenant.
It’s a pretense of obscurity, but bend this elbow,
it will always return to an arm, morsel of the whole.
An ark floating leaf and plume on sea-tossed air
reduces thought to ash and bark of birch.
Only anger dares swing a finger in this direction.
The bird is a dove entangled in the nesting brain.
To mystics it is wide and open as ocean,
but Christ it’s a hole in my wrist.
Copyright © 2013, Angel Zapata