Pearl Street (excerpt)


Public Housing Playground, 1977

The concrete sprinkler
is a purple whale
reared by local junkies.

You need shoes
to safely splash
your feet out here.

A Puerto Rican
boy runs through
city water spray

and, like Jonah of old,
is swallowed up whole.


Tiger Prey

While grandma
window-shops uptown,
he drags me

into his black-light
room of velvet

he says, is your
vocabulary word.

He shows me
Polaroids of

nude boys,
and then turns
the camera on me.


Angel Zapata calls Augusta, Georgia his home. Raised in NYC, his award-winning fiction and poetry is a conglomeration of street smarts and Southern charm. He’s authored two poetry collections: An Offering of Ink and Feathers and Prayers from Crooked Spines.