by Febe Moss
By the afternoon I had died,
my lashes and lids stuck
in a post mortem stink eye.
But like a iron-fisted zombie, I blindly
stalked down the road surrounded by
the devil’s promiscuous heat.
I had too much skin, bones, and blood
to surrender to a Texas sun.
In the evening hours like Frankenstein,
I was jolted alive and roamed innocently
under the artificial water. I tried my best
to believe I was an amphibian
in an unnatural world; armies of bubbles
caressed my flesh like a lover
dead set on making my lips wet.
In the tail end of my rebirth,
I came up for air and breathed
victory as the sun fell;
and I watched as the moon
was born out of the clouds.