Stone Angels

He had tigers blood.

Poetic fingertips
that called to me
like a siren's song,
while his demonic tongue
hissed 'S h i p w r e c k e d'.

We covered ourselves in ink,
danced along jailhouse walls,
under street lights, the edges
of skylines, darkened alleyways
and the parking lots of churches.

No fear,

We spoke in riddles— gestures;
the quiet sweep of eyelashes;
cigarette smoke that lingered
long enough to shape heavens
within our iris's—while crows
rested on our shoulders—perched
pecking, waiting for one to move.

As we were nothing more than
long-limb statues atop gravestones.