a flamingo knows,
even without pink lipstick,
fem is a feeling.
black boots. Raritan
tap water memories flow.
murderous brown geese.
fly from Johnson Park,
arrive, then turn up their beaks
‘fuck dis sposta be?’
they inquire. I
find cover in the leopard
print fem next to me
because here, always
someone’s looking, someone’s stares
caught in plexiglass
refracting the light
in your life. no. it’s not you.
they look to consume.
especially spring,
and when the ice cream melts
before it’s lapped up.
Philadelphia
is lilac and lightning strike
before a great storm.
electric strangers
cuff biceps unexpected
back draws straight—horror.
they look to consume.
they desire to control.
predatory birds;
eagles, owls, all.
swooping down with catching claws,
no glass to hide you.
I want my armor
an exoskeleton, tough
hewn of crushed velvet
bristling with defense
a kevlar of tenderness
enveloping me.
this is what happens
when the tree blooms: the axeman
runs to chop it down.
this is what happens
when creatures meant for the deep
somehow crawl ashore:
they will be lapped up
by the hot eyes of the sea
pulled tight by strange hands
knives licking their necks
the scent of wisteria
fireworks: flash/bang.
flash fire, roll flame
clip wings from those who maim us
declaw them all, bare.
maybe the will burn
corralled, while lights dance in the sky.
steaming macho ash.
and if they must live
then make me invisible.
hide me. erase me.
Originally published in Slingshot (Nightboat, 2019). Copyright © 2019 by Cyrée Jarelle Johnson. Reprinted with the permission of the poet.