Michael Sickler


Tonight the moon,

a shark’s eye, stares

through clouds cold as murder.

Sharks roll their eyes up

into their heads when they bite.

You can beat a shark’s face

to fend off attack.

Your fist was a coiled tail

hidden behind a look of thin ice;

a film of rage. Your mouth,

barely open.

At work I pace

like a fisherman’s widow;

face coated with sadness;

a part of me missing.