Ark

The shaft of a seaborne
ark — the leviathan of red-flecked perfume.
Dead-lead fog is a scarce resource; the
chutes and vestibules of straits lining
provocative overalls
remind the winged fragrance of its death.
The impression of cherry-pink; of
wine-stained coral —
beware it, for it sneaks beauty in the
basin with but a single droplet
left.

Marred, Because I am

I have something hanging from between my legs —
or perhaps it is but a fissure.
A mandatory assignment of
birth; and its meaningless-
nests nothing
but a mechanism to be used by others.

It only serves to hint,
to allude to impulses clutched by a grub searching for
nubs; for a capitulating wretch.
Even though now, it is overgrown;
partially cloaked too —
it remains in the former bud-green-
eerie,
of a permanent deformity.

Jacob Laba is a writer from Berkeley, California. He has been published in the East Bay Times, Haiku Journal, LitVegan, and is forthcoming elsewhere.