By Shaneen A. Harris
Some sounds slice air, travel
swifter than light. I can’t see
which fist is which, only taste the thick,
salty spit that webs my throat,
only hear the clamor—the hiss-whistle
from the forgotten tea pot mixed with bones-
as he howls, I’m the man of Momma’s house.
Her boyfriend bellows—he is the alpha.
Neither notice Momma, a bass flapping
in a pelican’s beak, breaking
her body against the air, as she tries to inter-
cede. None notice me in the corner, fetal
-crouched, sweat-sticky panties melding my flesh
to the floor. How hard must a body quake to shatter
the cage squalls create?
Shaneen A. Harris answered ‘both’ when asked if she was left or right brained. Also an IT professional, she recognizes the logic and creativity that exists in writing code and poems and that both are languages of relationships. Her goal is to foster these connections. Shaneen’s poems have appeared in Rattle, Rubbertop Review, Crab Orchard Review, and Postcard Poems and Prose literary magazines. She was also a finalist for the Wolverine Farm Broadside Poetry Prize. To recharge, Shaneen indulges in a Moscow Mule, music, and a good book. She is married and a mother of three.