be careful, my mother told me
there's daggers in men's smiles
glances that slash and whistles that cut
burrowing under our skin to make us wonder if-
they're cats, she said, tigers prowling down the streets
so we must sharpen our own knives
when they bear their teeth
cold iron in contrast to the dark of stripes
we flash our incandescent steel
that sparks a fire, burning brighter than tawny orange pelts
the pelt we see out of the corner of our eyes
as we walk home, moon- and neon-light showing the way
candy wrapper in hand
clutched tightly, to not make a sound
YOU ARE READING
metamorphosis
Poetrya collection of poetry written during quarantine, the tumultuous 2020 school year, and the entering into a post-covid world. randomly updated.
