Sarah Frances Moran is
a writer, editor, animal lover, videogamer, queer Latina. She thinks Chihuahuas
should rule the world and prefers their company to people 90% of the time. Her
work has most recently been published or is upcoming in Drunk Monkeys,
FreezeRay Poetry, Dirty Chai, Crabfat, Rust+Moth, Maudlin House and The
Bitchin' Kitsch. She is Editor/Founder of Yellow Chair Review. You may reach
her at www.sarahfrancesmoran.com
She Talks To Angels
Morphs into a sunrise and chains that love like she meant to keep it locked away.
She has the softest hands and she speaks in tongues to those falling.
The kind of tongue speaking rough with weather and leather and home.
Like how I felt when I danced around my room with my walkman blasting
IF YOU DON’T LOVE ME NOW YOU WILL NEVER LOVE ME AGAIN
screaming it so loud my parents would pound the walls and hoping somewhere the peace was resting in between all the noise handling it, handling it there.
She whispered to me inside the pound of the drum, Waiting with her lips on the tip of the crescendo,
Chain keep us together!
That’s where the wildness grows, running in the shadows.
That perfume by Dana that is a constant reminder of Mama.
It’s honeyed fragrance that truly smells of kickball being 8 years old running down sidewalks with newly made friends bloomed from divorce and enveloping hugs after sweaty days of play.
A reminder of times when doubts ran with laughter and pain danced with smiles.
A reminder that love managed to hide in the smallest crevices of the basement of my devastation.
She drops matches pre-lit with blue fire that trail her as she walks.
her thresholds rage in 3 alarms and even the sun winces
I wear sunglasses to bed and always in her presence, because the cerulean radiates my skin.
She leaves trickles of sweat and road rash in the really delicate places.
You know that will to hold on and hold on even when your hand is right over the flame? The way it burns and releases like the softest exhale?
I asked her once to place me in her pocket but she said I’d just burn up. I crawled in anyway and learned I was fire-proof.
She fondles me now, finds comfort in the smooth marks the heat left, places me in her palm and blows my spark into the night…