By Kenton K. Yee
I was sitting outside a cafe, oozing
into my journal, when a squadron
of seagulls from the blue sky dropped
what I initially surmised were oversized
glops of poop but they weren’t warm,
sticky, gooey, nor stinky—they were shiny,
sharp, and thrashing. You wouldn’t
believe it, the mackerels’ joie de vivre,
splashing, flashing, how upon ricocheting
off awnings, cars, and shoulders
they became sharp knives. I dropped
flat on my belly and slashed along
until I, too, exploded with joy,
thrashing, cutting, one of, and free.
About the Author:
Kenton K. Yee’s recent poems appear (or will soon) in Kenyon Review, Threepenny Review, Cincinnati Review, RHINO, Quarterly West, Poetry Northwest, Stonecoast, Columbia Journal, Electric Literature, Poetry Wales, Slipstream, Rattle, and other venues. His debut poetry chapbook is expected from Bull City Press in 2027. He writes from Northern California. FB:@scrambled.k.eggs INSTA:@kentonkyeepoet