~ fall 2oo8 ~
issue #11

IMAGES

steve hammond

WORDS

shane allison

writer

angel in my apartment building

black kitchen

cute

bio

Angel in My Apartment Building

For Noel

There’s an angel in my apartment building.
We live on the same floor.
I’m in room three, he’s in room one
Cuz one stands for angel.
He has wings, but like an itchy sweater,
He hates to wear them.
Says they get in the way of things,
Often gets slammed in doors.
"Does that hurt?" I ask.
"No, there’s no pain at all.
Other than losing a few feathers
And experiencing sort of a ticklish feeling," he says.
His heart is his halo.
I’m the only one who knows his secret.
When I’m around him, I feel clean.
I can walk through the open flames
Of the world unscathed.
When he comes in worn, tired
And torn a little,
I just want to carry him to the glory
Of his bedroom and bathe him
With a washcloth of light.

© shane allison

*****

Black Kitchen

The bacon sizzles in a silver pot on a spiral top that burns
To a tangerine orange beneath sweet cabbage.
Turn that stove down low, boy!
Collared greens unfurl to the size of elephant ears.
Let the water run rinsing them clean.
Hand me the knife from the drawer.
Get the strainer ready for rice.
Here are the scissors to cut the chittlins'.
They don't smell as bad over rice,
Doused with hot sauce.
Seasoning salt is drizzled over
Honey- sweet ham.
It's 6p.m. Time to make the cornbread.
Slices of Aunt Earline's jelly cake
Lie like dominoes on a plate painted of porcelain roses.
Mama makes the wild berry kool-aid syrupy sweet.
Pork chops in a ceramic bowl
Sit sullenly next to store bought
Sweet potato pies.
I’m in my room writing poetry,
Waiting to sink teeth into chicken breast
While the Superfriends are on mute.
Yall can come on eat now!

© shane allison

*****

Cute

You in pitch black Chuck Taylor's,
khaki's cuffed at your ankles,
see you gazing at girls.
Stare at your lips smeared with Chap Stick
make me fetch your shoes,
wash blood & snot off the collar of your shirt.
I think I see myself in your autumn eyes
fixing my hair.
Check for roast chicken between my teeth.
You have the arms that have held a million girls.
Hands rip off purple panties that slither
beneath bands of a million bras.
I want to be your cold-blooded girlfriend
beneath electric blankets
who leaves you defenseless, naked,
in a doublewide bed at Motel 6.
I'm just a queer.
A love poet prankster,
a bundle of sticks at your
pitch black sneakers.

© shane allison

*****

Shane Allison hails from New York, NY and Tallahassee, FL - he has had poems published in Mississippi Review, New Delta Review, Absinthe Literary Review, and others. He has authored five chapbooks of poetry. To contact this writer, click here.