By: Emalisa Rose
I go for the wounded first
offering a bag fill of what’s
left in the fridge; some days
i bring macaroni
Roy says most likely his claw
got cut off in a fight; you can
see he’s the bull in the bunch.
I say i don’t care. I’m a softie
for those disenfranchised
I’m gaga for gulls, often times
more so than humans, growing
more feral since this virus got
real to the marrow
man on the checkerboard square
gives me his arrow eyes, wanting
to choke me for feeding them. I
tell him the shoreline is their home
and we are all guests here
He shoots me some lines, which are
best left unsaid. I walk to the water’s
edge, sandpipers cradling my feet,
as I’m wishing i were born a high flyer.
When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting. She volunteers in animal rescue. She lives by a beach town, which provides much of the inspiration for her work. Her poems have appeared in LIterary Yard, Cholla Needles, Rat’s Ass Review and other journals.