a poetry e-zine










John Grey



You were my first angel

though already fallen.

In the grass, your stomach

writhed, breasts heaved,

legs kicked wildly like a centipede.

Your mouth was silent

but the rest of your body

was laughing.

What was being naked but

a pie in the face,

a slip on the sidewalk,

a chance to be ridiculous

and hot as if you'd sat

your bare butt on a stove.

Senses launched skyward

required a dirty, uncomfortable beginning

on the ground.

You were the angel

but it took days for

your wings, your halo to appear.

At the moment,

you were the feel

of foliage tickling bare flesh,

seeds in the kisses,

and the sound of cop

car siren slicing the air

not a hundred yards from where

we huddled.

When we were done,

you slid away, and I just lay there numbed,

watched a butterfly onto

my freckled shoulder.

It was the kind of

black and orange angel

you would have loved to be

as it cocked its head,

held its wings to attention,

fluttered in my breathing.



John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in The Lyric, Vallum and the science fiction anthology, “The Kennedy Curse” with work upcoming in Bryant Literary Magazine, Natural Bridge, Southern California Review and the Oyez Review.

Copyright 2014  Chantarelle's Notebook