Steve Gerson
like snakeskin glistening on the beach
We were just jostling, you know, kids on the pier’s edge trying to impress the girls, they in their bikinis, we in our cutoffs, and the water looked clear, at least I thought, no crags, blue-black depth, so I pushed him, giggling, in the August sun and glanced at Susie in her swim suit glistening like snakeskin on the beach, her laughter a siren song hissing through the summer sky like the sea nymph Circe in pigtails, and he fell reaching out to me half in fun half in horror and tumbled backwards, so he hit head first his neck the doctor said breaking on impact, I recalled telling his mom, my eyes welling, tears trickling down my face like beads of venom.
raptors circle
beneath cloud cover
the land accepts darkness
About the Author
Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life’s dissonance. He has published in CafeLit, Panoplyzine, Crack the Spine, Decadent Review, Vermilion, In Parentheses, Wingless Dreamer, Big Bend Literary Magazine, Coffin Bell, and more, plus his four chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; and The 13th Floor: Step into Anxiety (Spartan Press).